


Buckets For Bailing Out The Flood

by TheHatterTheory



Series: Hagalaz [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alpha Derek, Angst, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Conflict Resolution, Dreams and Nightmares, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Family of Choice, Galdr, Growing Up, Humor, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Norwegian Mythology & Folklore, Pack Dynamics, Pack Politics, Personal Growth, Romance, Russian Mythology, Scars, Sibling Bonding, Slow Burn, Stilinski Family Feels, agree to disagree, feelings talks, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 56,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1384660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatterTheory/pseuds/TheHatterTheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles comes to, things have changed.<br/>Or; In which everything is harder once the crisis is over. (And Derek complicates things.)</p><p>Sequel to These Accidents of Faith and Nature</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beeblebrox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beeblebrox/gifts).



> I become a crazy person when posting the first or last chapters of anything. Eventually I give in and stop knitpicking.

The broken room was a jagged line of white separating one world from another. On his left, the remains of light fixtures and smooth white floors and ceiling jutted out, broken teeth promising a fall into the breach; a place that echoed with only the memories of what had been. On his right, it framed the forest, greens and browns spread out, blurred at the edges until they faded into the fog, a vague promise of what could be.

Stepping off of the line, away from the safe sterility of limbo, he felt the uneven ground beneath his feet, was carefully absorbed, folded into sound and scent, sensation and senses returning. The white crumpled, crumbled and fell away until there was no way to return to the in between, nothing to separate the void from the forest.

He felt eyes following him as he moved, observing quietly. The currents of power around him ebbed and flowed, followed the lines of the tide he could hear in the distance. Salt bit the air, mixed with the sharp tang of new growth and the damp of rotting leaves and soil.

The hollow place behind him echoed, the shadows threatening to pull him back, pull him under.

He ignored it, ignored the vastness behind him, the tattered edges of where Self had once seamlessly blended into Other. Instead he kept walking forward, one foot in front of the other, and began to hum his mom's favorite song.

* * *

His whole body throbbed unpleasantly, and something itched at his face. He tried to push at it but his arm refused to obey his command, his body sluggish, heavy. When he attempted opening his eyes, the lids stuck together, like they had been glued shut.

The groan that came out was warm, reflected back on his face, a warm mist that felt too thick to inhale.

"He's awake!" A voice called out, too loud. Sounds vibrated through him, dizzying, nausea inducing. He groaned, the sound coming out a rasp and echoing back against his lips.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, several faces were staring down at him.

"'Rek," He tried, the name coming out as a single syllable.

He could barely make out the troubled frown his dad wore. But he could make it out. It was the same face he wore when he was giving bad news to victims families.

"'Dad-" He tried, batting at the mask over his face. "D'rek."

His dad shook his head and the emptiness swallowed him.

* * *

The world around him was too bright, too hot. The roar of a fire and piercing shrieks echoed in his ears, ricocheted in his skull as he tried to force his way through the wall of flame to them, to get to them.

He reached, hand parting the flames before they licked up his arm, greedy for clothing and flesh. Smoke poured in when he tried to scream, choking him, bloating him until the sound was obliterated.

* * *

When he woke up, his dad was there, slouched in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs and one hand still clinging to the rail of the hospital bed. He'd seen it from other angles, but never this one, could remember the same pose from when he'd been a child, his father's face angled at his mother like it was now angled at him. Stiles tried to mumble, his mouthy too dry and his throat clogged with sand, pushed at the mask on his face. The sheriff didn't stir until he moved his hand to hover and then rest it on top of his dad's.

Tired blue eyes opened slowly.

"Dad," He rasped, trying to force his hand to squeeze. It took effort, his whole body protesting each shift of muscle and bone. Pain shot through his right side all the way down to his foot, something needling and stabbing into his flesh layered over a dull, persistent ache in his muscles and bones.

"Stiles," His dad whispered, his face reflecting a bone deep weariness Stiles hadn't seen since his mother had died. "God son, you scared the shit out of me." His dad's other hand came to rest on top of his, warm and trembling. Stiles could feel the pulse of blood through his hands, reassuring and steady.

"What happened?" His voice cracked and deepened, sounded like gravel coming out of his throat.

"Rick said-" His dad started, then shook his head. "It sounded less magical when he said it. Peter got into the house, and you did the spell. Peter tried to get to you by caving in the floor. You were unconscious when we found you in the den."

"Peter-"

"Dead," His dad interjected, expression flickering, shifting from one emotion to another in a series of confusing masks.

"Dad, what's wrong?" He demanded, voice coming out half a whisper, almost inaudible despite his panic. "Did someone-" He choked on the next words. Where was Derek, or Cassie? They wouldn't leave him alone in a hospital room, he knew them too well. Shit, he doubted half the people he knew would budge from the room until he'd woken up.

"Everyone survived, except Peter," His dad said, voice calm. But he still looked troubled, face showing the toll the last-What? Days or weeks? Had taken on him.

"Dad," Stiles whimpered. Old grief, new stress, worry. recognized the expression his father was wearing, knew it portended something awful. "What's wrong?"

"Everyone's fine," His dad said, and Stiles could feel the lie in the words, clear as a bell. "Everyone's alive. You focus on getting better."

Stiles didn't even know what was wrong with him. His side hurt, but he could move. The floor. Maybe he'd hurt himself falling through the floor?

"Derek," He started. Where was Derek?

"Derek's fine," His dad assured him.

Stiles closed his eyes, exhausted. It was only because he could feel the darkness swamping his vision and blurring his thoughts that he didn't press, didn't ask his dad why that felt like a lie.

* * *

When he came to, he felt like he'd been run over by a freight train. Blinking his eyes open, he realized that the mask had been removed from his face. Rick was sitting in a chair next to the bed, his head tilted back, eyes closed.

He tried to say Rick's name but his voice came out in a croak. It worked just as well, the emissary's entire body tensing as he came to and straightened. Stiles tried to say Rick's name again and it came out in a rasp, his mouth and throat too dry to form more than a half choked syllable. Rick got up, his movements jerky and halting as he grabbed a giant plastic hospital mug and brought the straw to his lips.

"Drink," He told him, voice gravely from sleep. Stiles mouthed the straw and sucked, felt tepid water hit his mouth. It tasted like heaven and he pulled at it several times before leaning back into his pillows.

"Happened?" He managed.

Rick took his time settling back down, expression pensive when he finally met Stiles' gaze. "What do you remember?" He asked instead of answering.

Stiles frowned, shook his head. "The spell, then-" Then the dreams. "Nothing. I was here."

Rick sighed, a deep, heavy sound. "I don't know what you did, only what Derek told me, the spell structure was too fractured after-" Rick waved a hand vaguely. "But when we found you, Peter was dead and you were unconscious. He'd caved the floor in to get to you."

He vaguely remembered his dad saying something about Peter caving in the floor. That-Made an awful amount of sense. The tip and crash, the pain that had almost pulled him out of the spell's structure entirely.

"Stiles, by the time we got in there-" Rick paused, looked genuinely torn. "Derek had killed Peter."

Stiles took a deep, shuddering breath as the words registered. "Tell me I burned out the alpha spark before he did."

Rick shook his head. "Derek is an alpha now. He's-He needed some time to come to terms with everything. After you woke up, he went back to Portland."

It was too much to ask that Derek was okay, the reflex was there for all that he knew it was a stupid question. Selfishly he wished Derek was there with him instead of hundreds of miles away.

"A lot happened, most of which I don't understand. Lydia and Deaton weren't able to read anything either, the area was clean. There's nothing there to read. And you broke your ties to the land. Here and in Portland."

Stiles knew that, had known that when he'd seen the darkness where the white room had been, when the final bits of it had fallen away and left him with no option but to fall or move forward. But hearing it said, hearing Rick say it, felt like the final nail in the coffin.

"I didn't mean to." A child's attempt to apologize, it felt futile even though he knew Rick would understand. Nothing was changed just because he hadn't meant to, the words didn't matter when he didn't even know how to explain why it had happened.

"Derek said you were trying to burn Peter out."

Stiles nodded. He'd apparently failed at that. And a host of other things. The void behind him, in him, waited. Spiderweb fine threads, almost intangible, kept him from falling entirely, kept him inside his skin instead of tripping, tumbling back into the darkness.

"Stiles, what was the stave in the center? Derek drew it, but I can't make sense of it."

"Miotvið," Stiles said, shrugging and then flinching as pain moved up his side.

"Scott said the fate tree. That word-I don't think I've ever heard it used outside of the texts. Never for a stave either," Rick asked, frowning.

"I drew it for the structure. On the fly, mine, pretty much."

Rick nodded, looking more concerned than he had before. "It's something to examine later," He murmured softly, in direct contradiction to his expression. "Until then, it's best to focus on getting better."

His dad had said the same thing, hadn't he? Getting better. How bad off was he?

"How long have I been here?"

"It's the fourth of January. Happy new year."

"Shit."

"On the upside, you only have a minor fracture in your tibia that's already healing well, a couple of cracked ribs, a few minor scrapes, but that's it. It could have been much worse. The doctors ran several tests to explain your coma, and aside from a concussion, there was no obvious damage to your brain. You've been one in what appears to be a long line of inexplicable cases for them."

"If I'm good, I'd just like to check out," Stiles mumbled, trying not to imagine his dad forced to watch and listen to doctors analyzing charts and scans. Hospitals were shit places for both of them. "Asap."

"And everyone wants you out of here. The staff have tried to be understanding, but the amount of people coming and going have kept them on edge. Understandably, considering."

"Sounds ominous."

"You have no idea," Rick said, running a hand over his face. "It's been an experience. One I have no wish to repeat any time soon."

"Right there with you." Never sounded nice. Never sounded perfect.

"I'll call Caroline. Cassie's been a mess."

"I can imagine." Not that he wanted to, but he could. With Derek in Portland and him in the hospital, he doubted she'd been taking it easy on anyone. The sheer number of people she could (and would) aim her frustration at started at 'family spat' and quickly escalated into ''political incident'. He could only hope Scott and Caroline had been as understanding as they normally were.

Rick made a strange noise, chagrin and something else, maybe fondness? "Matthias flew in from Norway. It seems near death experiences simplify things. I think Cassie's focus on you and her refusal to let him take care of her has both of them going a little crazy."

That was-That was good. Maybe something genuinely good would come of the whole ordeal.

Rick called Caroline, promised to speak to a doctor and to 'keep an eye on him, don't worry'. There was a threat of four point restraints somewhere in there, not that Stiles was eavesdropping. Rick just wasn't subtle.

The nurse came in and checked on him, promised a visit from the doctor shortly.

Within thirty minutes of the phone call, Stiles was being overwhelmed by people. First being Cassie, who had completely ignored everyone else (including one disgruntled nurse) and climbed into bed with him. Scott, likewise, was sitting next to the bed, a hand on his arm to leech away the pain. Caroline stood back with Matthias and Rick, all of them silently watching as Cassie hummed and whimpered, alternating between taking his pain and touching his face, reassuring herself that he was alright. Lydia came in, Payton hot on her heels and looking relieved. The room already had too many people when Melissa and his dad came in, both looking like their own personal Christmas miracle had occurred.

He missed Derek.

The doctor pushed everyone but his dad out, ignored the glares and quiet growls. Even Melissa glowered as she ushered out the others.

The doctor called it shock, trauma. All of his tests had come back negative for anything suspicious or worrying. The self inflicted scars were given a cursory speech, mentioning therapy and the strains on his body. Stiles held his dad's hand as they both lied to the doctor about seeking professional help. By the end of it, Stiles was more than ready to get the hell out of the hospital.

It was all very anticlimactic, ending with him and his dad signing form after form before he was practically shoved in a wheelchair and sent off with what felt like a sigh of relief. Cassie snarled at anyone that tried to get too close to him, helped him into the front seat of his dad's car and got in the back. Matthias slid in next to her, expression neutral.

Stiles took a deep breath and tried to ignore the darkness that seemed to wait, just below his feet.

Lydia's driveway was practically choked with cars, some of them Stiles recognized, some he didn't.

Derek's truck was gone.

Stiles tried not to notice, and failed miserably.

Cassie stayed glued to his side, let him use her as a crutch as they walked up the drive and then the steps. The inside of the house no longer smelled musty and disused, but of fresh paint and sawdust. It made his heart twist painfully, the scents familiar but not, too abrupt and unexpected to allow him to settle.

He ignored Cassie when she tried to steer him towards the living room, headed for the stairs instead. Despite knowing how much they wanted to reassure themselves he was okay, he hadn't been alone since waking up, was still reeling from the information Rick had given him before pretending that everything was alright. Everything was so far from alright, and he didn't know how long he could keep up the pretense.

"How fucked is everything?" He asked as Cassie helped him sit down on the bed. It had new, unfamiliar blankets and sheets. In fact, it looked different in general, the obnoxious mountain of pillows nowhere in evidence. There was even a different headboard, different furniture.

Lydia must have been stress shopping. It was apparently a thing.

"We'll figure it out," Cassie said, the words so practiced that he imagined her saying it to her reflection dozens of times. Maybe she was starting to believe it. After she helped him pull off his shoes and socks, she toed off her own, crawled into the bed next to him.

"Dad wasn't sure you'd find your way back," She admitted, voice quiet. Stiles could hear the hitch of her breathing, the sound of tears waiting at the back of her throat.

"But I did." Even if it had taken what felt like years, even though he'd almost fallen back into the darkness once or twice. Even though he'd never wanted to leave the forest.

The door opened several minutes later, Lydia and Payton slipping in. Stiles didn't even try, knowing full and well when the battle was already lost. Payton sat on the floor, his back braced against the bed. Lydia laid down on his free side, careful of jostling the mattress.

"So, what aren't the people in charge telling me?" He finally asked.

"Allison thinks you planned it," Lydia murmured, voice devoid of inflections. Payton let out an indelicate noise, clearly expressing what he thought of that particular sentiment.

"Still?"

"She thinks you planned to make Derek an alpha," Payton clarified.

"Oh." There wasn't much he could say to that. He hadn't tried to endear himself to Allison, and Derek had never stopped being her enemy, only made more so when he'd cockblocked her with Lydia. But still. He'd never-Derek becoming an alpha had never crossed his mind. It would have required him killing Peter, and he hadn't wanted Derek in that position to begin with. The added hell of being an alpha again was another typical paradigm shift he hadn't really accounted for, even though he probably should have expected it.

"Scott doesn't believe it," Cassie added. And that was strange, Cassie standing up for Scott in any capacity. "He thinks the whole thing was just a giant mess, but he doesn't think you or Derek planned for this. He's keeping Allison and Issac away from us."

"Bet that was entertaining." He was glad he'd been unconscious for it.

"I think Argent needs to put his daughter in therapy," Payton muttered.

Lydia hummed. "Allison needs time to figure out where things stand. Nothing's certain right now."

"What does that mean?"

"You broke your connection to the nemeton, and the one you have to Portland."

"And?" He did not like where this was going.

"And it means that you are a fully initiated emissary, and you have three alphas that would love to have you. Now there's nothing holding you back from choosing any of them," Lydia told him. Cassie's arm squeezed him, made pain flare up his side. His breath hissed out from between his clenched teeth in answer. The pressure immediately abated, the sensation of his pain dulling as Cassie stroked his scars.

"Not right now, Lydia," He muttered, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see the impatient roll of her eyes. "Just-Let me enjoy the fact that we all lived." Which was a novelty all it's own. Beacon Hills had been content with one death. Emotional fallout he could deal with. The lack of death felt depressingly like a reward in and of itself.

Payton started singing, the foreign words lilting in an accented voice. It reminded Stiles of the forest, made him close his eyes and just exist instead of thinking.

When the singing paused, Stiles listened, heard the door opening slightly.

"It cool if I come in?" Scott's voice asked.

"Find a spot dude," Stiles said, ignoring how Cassie's arm tightened minutely. Scott would probably feel like a threat to her until he'd made some sort of official declaration.

Thoughts saved for later.

Payton started singing again, didn't seem to mind Scott's presence, which was a minor blessing, one he was willing to accept.

He fell asleep, exhausted and wondering if he would be able to account for how much the world had changed while he was unconscious.

* * *

Stiles stared at Cassie, bracing himself for the argument that was sure to come.

"I think it's time for you and Matthias to head out." Caroline and Rick had both told him they were leaving shortly, and Cassie and Matthias had been hanging around, almost smothering him. Cassie, at least. Matthias seemed off balance in the current situation, understandably. Both needed time to readjust, and hanging around Beacon Hills wasn't going to help them any.

"I'm not leaving you," Cassie snarled, going from patient and gentle to snarling in less time than usual.

"Cas, I'm fine," Stiles said, holding her hands between his. He willed her to understand, to realize he was doing it as much for himself as he was for her. "Everything is fine now. I'm just going to spend a couple of days with my dad, alright?"

"But-"

"But nothing," He interrupted. "Cas, you look like shit, and it's been a long few weeks. I want you to go to Shaw's, or hell, there are literally a dozen nice little bed and breakfasts between here and Portland. Take a few days with Matthias. He wants to take care of you. Let him, just a little. You need some time."

"I don't need time," Cassie muttered, angry. "And I don't need anyone to take care of me."

"You almost died," Stiles reminded her. "Come on Tink, you know things are going to be crazy once we all get back there. Take a few days to relax with your boyfriend. Have a lot of sex, reaffirm life, watch the sunset and the sunrise, all that corny shit."

Cassie looked like she was going to cry, her expression slowly breaking to reveal the insecure girl he knew was always there, hiding just beneath the tissue paper fine layer of arrogance and cheer. "What if you don't come back?"

That hurt, even though he understood where she was coming from, remembered too well how he'd told her he'd dreamed of being with his brother again. He pulled her hands to his lips, kissed them gently in what he hoped was reassurance. "I promised that no matter what, we'd stick together. Lost Boys, right?" He reminded her. "I'm not going to leave you."

"Not even for Scott?"

Stiles shook his head, smiling sadly. "Just because I'm not tied to the vé or the nemeton doesn't mean I'm going to become his emissary."

"What about mom?" She pressed.

Stiles squeezed her hands gently. "Like I said, things are going to be crazy when we all get back. That's why we need some time to breathe, all of us. But I'm not leaving, Tink. Not you, not Derek. I promise."

Cassie shuddered, leaning forward to hug him, careful, gentle in a way she normally wasn't. "I love you."

"I love you too," He murmured into her hair. "Have a good time, okay? Don't worry about anything, don't think about anything but Matthias, and how amazing it is that he flew halfway across the world for you."

Cassie nodded, although he could tell her heart wasn't in it.

"I'll make pear bars when I get back," He added, eliciting a quiet puff of laughter that fell short of sounding genuine. A lot was being counted purely for effort, and that as much as anything was grating on him, made the entire exercise feel like a loss. Eggshells and glass littered the metaphorical floor, everyone tiptoeing around trying not to set each other off in the process.

"You better."

He watched her go, closing the door softly behind her. Three days of constant supervision, of constant reassurance and touch, of pain leeching and painful breathing. Three days of his dad hovering, of Scott quietly coming and going, of Melissa helping with his bandages, of Caroline and Rick lingering on the sidelines. Three days of Payton singing, three days of dreams and tiptoeing on an imaginary line. Three days of throwing all of his energy at ignoring the obvious, at clinging to any sense of stability before the inevitable fallout.

Three days of no Derek.

Not that he was counting or anything.

Moving still felt like a bad idea in general, but he got up and stumbled to the bathroom. It, at least, hadn't been totally revamped in Lydia's home makeover. He understood why she'd done it, giving the entire house a minor face lift. Peter had invaded her home, used her again. That alone would be enough to make her want to demolish it. Redecorating was actually pretty mild compared to what he would do. (Had done.)

The bruising still showed signs of slowly healing, the worst of it on his side, running down the length of his body like he'd landed on it. It was entirely possible, would even explain the cracked ribs. Trust Peter to be the one that figured out how to circumvent mountain ash.

Lydia had been the first one in after Derek. He'd have to ask her, once he managed to get her alone. It had been difficult to find a moment alone, much less talk to anyone one on one. The idea of getting everyone the fuck out of Lydia's house had more than one appeal. Talking to Lydia was just the first in a long list of reasons.

With that thought in mind, he started brushing his teeth, ignoring his reflection in the mirror. The gaunt stranger he'd seen his first day back reminded him too much of how he'd been, of how much Beacon Hills stole from him, changed and warped him. The scars on his chest had healed, shiny pink lines beneath his shirt that he didn't want to look at any more, didn't want to acknowledge.

Once that was finished, he limped back to the bedroom, rifled through the duffels of clean clothes. Derek had left some of his own behind. It hadn't been intentional, couldn't have been (even if Stiles wanted it to be). But it was nice to have one of Derek's shirts to pull over his head, the lingering combination of scents still there despite the fragrance in Lydia's detergent. For all that it was a pain to get dressed on his own, he managed it without killing himself.

He was beyond the point of taking what he could get.

In what probably wasn't coincidence, Payton stepped out of his room the minute Stiles did.

"I'm not going to fall and break my neck," Stiles muttered, grabbing the rail. It was one thing to be independent, another to be an idiot.

"Almost did," Payton hummed, leaning against the railing and watching him. Stiles had no doubt that Payton would be able to catch him if he started falling. It made the trek down that much more annoying. Only when he'd gotten his feet on the floor again did Payton jog down the steps. Stiles wasn't impressed.

"Sticking around for Lydia?"

"She's interesting," Payton admitted, grinning. "Handful doesn't begin to describe it."

"No, it doesn't," Stiles smirked. "Good luck man. She's great."

"Not going to threaten me?"

Stiles snorted, rolled his eyes. "Dude, if you think she needs _anyone_ to do that for her, then we're thinking about totally different Lydias." And god help Payton if he thought Lydia would even be remotely okay with it. He'd probably get his testicles back in a paper sack, if he got them back at all.

Payton actually laughed at that and nodded in agreement. Stiles ignored the twinging pain in his ribs when he chuckled and walked to the living room, Payton continuing on to the kitchen. The den was still a no go are for everyone, although purely for emotional reasons. Luckily, the kitchen didn't seem to be the main congregating area anymore, although the sense of formality the living room gave discussions made him uneasy. It would have helped if it was like a normal living room and not a giant display case, but that was Lydia's prerogative. After everything she'd been through, he wasn't going to bitch at her about her parent's house.

Caroline and Rick were both there, discussing something with Scott. Everyone had their phones (and in Rick's case, his tablet) out which was-It was good. Whatever it was. He'd find out sooner or later. They all looked up when he gingerly sat down, grunting from the effort. Scott was at his side in an instant, hand on his to help with the pain. The touch wasn't completely unwelcome, although it was awkward for him in a way it wasn't for Scott, who just wanted to help, as usual. Another thing he wasn't going to bitch about.

"I told Cas to get out of here for a few days and go somewhere relaxing with Matthias."

"Probably a good idea," Rick admitted, rubbing his eyes. "We're getting everything tied up here. Are you coming back with us?"

"I'm sticking around for a few days," Stiles answered, ignoring the sense of impending doom that settled on his shoulders.

"How will you get home? Surely you're not going to try to drive," Caroline protested gently. She'd been uncharacteristically patient and soft over the course of three days, pushing for nothing. It was making him wary, downright paranoid to return to Portland.

"Payton seems like he's hanging around, he can drive me back up," Stiles said, shrugging off his sense of unease. As much as he wanted to get back to Derek, he didn't know what the reception would be. Once Cas got back, he'd undoubtedly get a call giving him a better idea of what to expect. Whatever was happening now wouldn't be it.

Caroline nodded slowly. He was in tune with her still, if only because he'd spent so long learning how to read her. The studied neutrality didn't bode well for his return home. Rick, on the other hand, looked relieved. Maybe to get out of Beacon Hills, back to his home and his family. Away from the general insanity and back to his normal life.

"We can go ahead then," Rick said, only confirming how very much he wanted out. "Before I go however, I'd like it if you could draw the spell structure for me. There are some things I want to go over, if that's alright."

"Sure," Stiles said, trying not to show how uncomfortable the thought made him. But Rick could probably explain what had gone wrong, why Peter hadn't burned out. Rick handed over his tablet, a program already open. Blank white stared up at him, reminded him too much of the crumbling line.

(Had it crumbled or been consumed by the void?)

It was messy, but he managed to draw the spiral. The center stave was trickier, the precise lines jagged as he traced his finger along the surface of the screen. After undoing the lines and redoing them, then doing them again, he drew the base elements off to the side so Rick wouldn't be forced to decode it on his own.

His hands were shaking by the time he saved it and handed the tablet off. Rick's gaze was concerned, his mouth opening to say something before slamming shut.

"I'll go grab our things," Caroline murmured softly, standing. Scott stood, either out of politeness or respect, but Stiles couldn't, felt strangely winded. Caroline paused in front of him and leaned down. Lips brushed the top of his head before a hand brushed through his hair. It was a maternal gesture, uncomfortable purely for that reason.

"We'll see you when you get back," She murmured. Stiles nodded, swallowed thickly, barely heard it when Caroline said something to Scott as they shook hands.

Rick seemed far more sensitive to the shift in his mood and settled for a light hand on his shoulder and a quiet 'be safe' before shaking Scott's hand.

Cassie thundered down the stairs minutes later, Matthias hot on her heels. Stiles had barely spoken to the newcomer, but he had the distinct feeling Matthias already resented him and how Cassie focused on him so single mindedly. Something else to work on and figure out.

"Don't let anything happen to him," She growled at Scott, completely fearless and unrepentant in the face of an alpha. However, she didn't ignore the hand Scott extended in offering.

"I'm right here," Stiles muttered as he stood up. The house was clearing with almost alarming ease. He'd suspect a trap if he didn't already know what was waiting for him.

"Well, don't get hurt again. Or I will come back. I swear to god Stiles," Cassie huffed. Stiles managed a smile, hoped it was somewhere in the vicinity of reassuring.

"I've got my cell phone on, okay? Just go relax."

It was immensely uncomfortable being hugged by a clingy werewolf at the best of times, and this time was no exception. Stiles could feel Cassie's hesitation, nuzzled into her hair and murmured nonsense words and sounds to reassure her that it was okay for her to leave, that he'd come back, that things were going to be okay.

Matthias shook his and Scott's hands and led her out of the room. The front door opened and practically slammed shut just as Stiles dropped back onto the couch.

"Fuck. That was easier than I thought it would be," Stiles admitted.

"They're good people," Scott said. Stiles couldn't help but side eye his brother, even as Scott continued. "They're looking out for you, giving you some space. It's pretty obvious you're about to go insane from all the attention."

"I was not made to be coddled," Stiles agreed, heaving a sigh.

Awkward silence descended. Stiles didn't know what to say next, hadn't planned far enough ahead to think about what to say to Scott when they were alone again. Years stood between them, making what was obvious difficult. He wanted to ignore it all, to pretend it didn't hurt, that there still weren't questions and accusations resting just below scabs waiting to be pulled off. No, ignoring it would make it worse. But acknowledging it made it difficult to feel anything but stilted and uncomfortable.

"I'm not going to ask, don't worry," Scott finally said, still not looking at him.

"Ask what?" Playing dumb had worked for him before, and he was willing to coast by on it while he could manage. That there was so much to ask about made it easier to pretend he didn't have a clue.

"Everyone-Lydia and Rick said that you broke your connection to the nemeton. I'm not taking that as a sign or anything. I'm not going to ask you to be my emissary."

"Okay." He hadn't expected Scott to ask, knew Scott well enough to know Scott wasn't that oblivious. It did pose the problem of Caroline and Derek, but he wasn't going to think about that until he had to.

"So what now?"

"You wouldn't happen to have an xbox would you?"

"House burned down, remember? I'm staying at mom's until I figure out-" Scott stopped, shrugged. There was something not being said, something that itched at Stiles' brain. Before-Before, Scott had never hesitated to talk about a problem, so the signs of him holding back made Stiles antsy.

"What's going on dude?"

"Allison and Issac are at Chris'."

Ah. That-Hinted at something Stiles didn't particularly want to think about either. Too bad he was probably the only person besides Melissa that would actually care.

"It's not because of me, is it?" Nope, his masochistic tendencies were alive and well, apparently.

"Not the way you think," Scott admitted, looking up at the ceiling. Stiles empathized. Some conversations were easier when you weren't forced to look the problem in the eye. "Allison thinks you and Derek planned to turn him into an alpha. Issac seems to think so too."

"And you don't?" He asked, pretending an apathy he didn't feel. Scott's answer felt important, a fork in the road that might determine where they would go, if they could manage to go forward at all.

"I was one of the first people in the barrier, after Miles and Payton. I saw-" Scott shook his head, looking haunted. "Dude we thought you were dead. Derek was- Man he was just gone, completely feral. I've never seen anyone like that before. There was no way either of you planned that."

Stiles hummed noncommittally, unsure of how to respond. There weren't many things he could say, considering he hadn't seen it. Derek's reaction- He didn't want to think about Derek feral, broken over him. Despite what had happened, he still didn't have a name for what was going on, felt disoriented because it felt like nothing had changed, per se. Except it had, hadn't it?

Allison and Issac's opinions didn't seem to matter much in the face of all the changes that had happened, that had yet to happen.

"What's it like?" Scott asked, jarring him from his reverie.

"What?"

"Being free of the nemeton?"

Stiles inhaled sharply, tried not to look in and down, around at the void that waited. "Abram told me it was possible to break a connection like ours."

"And you didn't do it then?"

Stiles shook his head. "He said that sometimes it breaks wrong. The person just sort of-Disappears. His theory was that they get pulled into the currents."

"No wonder you didn't."

"It's not getting pulled into the land. It's falling into the empty place left behind. It's like a black hole inside my own head."

Scott shuddered through an exhale that sounded like it was physically painful. "So I guess asking if I could do it is probably a dumb idea."

"It's not any better or worse, I think," Stiles admitted. "Just something else to deal with." One shit hand for another, and he didn't know if it was worth it this time, if he'd somehow made a mistake. The spell hadn't burned Peter out, hadn't prevented Derek from killing him, hadn't allowed them to escape without completely altering their lives.

"It sounds awful."

"It's still a tossup, I'm waiting to see if this one comes with hallucinations or not," He joked, except his voice was too flat, even for deadpan. The very real possibility that he'd traded down or even broke even was a depressing realization.

Scott made a quiet sound that tried to be amusement and failed, both of them falling short of the mark.

"Look, I know we have a lot to talk about-"

"But not yet," Stiles interrupted, hearing the sentiment in the space where Scott fell silent and agreeing wholeheartedly. Scott nodded, tension beginning eek out of him. Relief. Neither of them could really talk about it yet. Maybe not for awhile. Band aid. They'd made it through the crisis. Now came the hard part.

For all the complications waiting, Stiles allowed himself the first cautious hints of optimism. At least they had time, now. Time to feel out all the broken, jagged edges in each other and figure out how to navigate them.

* * *

"You look like someone kicked your puppy," His dad commented as they waited for their dinner. It was one on one time, father son bonding over a steak and potatoes dinner topped off with a thick beer. The sort of meal he'd have had an aneurysm over eating with his dad at any other time. But he needed some time away from Lydia and Payton and their weird mating rituals, and Scott was at Melissa's trying to work through their issues together. His dad was an island of mundane pragmatism in the center of it all, proof that the world still went round despite the supernatural bullshit that disrupted his life. It was an enviable quality Stiles had no idea how to emulate.

"I do not."

His dad was quiet for a moment before giving him a slant eyed look. "If anyone had told me you'd be making cow eyes at Derek back when I arrested him, I'd have probably shot them. And him, just to be safe."

"I'm not making cow eyes."

His dad made a disbelieving sound that told Stiles exactly how pathetic he was being.

"I guess that means that wasn't your mother's wedding ring I saw on his necklace."

Stiles choked on the sip of beer he'd been taking to try and cover his initial awkwardness, a thousand times more embarrassed because, while he hadn't forgotten that Derek still had it, it hadn't been the predominant thought in his mind. And he'd never counted on his father noticing.

"It's not-" Not what? He'd used it for a spell, but he never would have let Derek carry it if it hadn't meant something else. "I don't know." It seemed like the best of all possible answers, mostly because it was the truth.

"It's always go big or go home with you," His dad sighed, smiling at him like maybe he wasn't going to have a heart attack. "He's a good kid."

Stiles resisted the urge to check the windows for fiery hail dropping from the sky or other evidence of the apocalypse. "A good kid? That's what you're going with?"

"I thought you two would dance around it for awhile longer, but I've had time to get used to the idea. He cares about you. You care about him him. Between the two of you, you do your best to take care of each other. Can't ask for much more than that."

There were a plethora of smart quips Stiles could come back with, but all of them hit too close to home, would only make his dad worry if he voiced them aloud. "Is this some sort of weird 'you have my blessing' speech?" Stiles asked sarcastically, hoping to play off the discomfort.

"Do you want it to be?"

"Don't answer a question with a question."

"Then don't ask stupid questions."

"So to be clear, you're not pissed off that of all the people in the world, it was Derek Hale?"

"Oregon legalized same sex marriage last year."

"You're such an _asshole_."

"I learned from the best," His dad smirked, just as their plates arrived.

* * *

Stiles cornered Lydia in her bedroom, ignoring niceties in favor of actually finding out what happened. Her and Payton's mating dance had kept her occupied, so much so that he couldn't miss the light bruise of a hickey on her collarbone.

"You've been avoiding me."

"I've been busy," She said, folding a pair of jeans. "And now I'm packing."

"Lydia," He tried, sitting down on the bed. "Please."

She studiously avoided looking at him for several more minutes, moving on from one pair of pants to another. Careful, controlled movements gave away her tension, her entire body rigid, almost robotic. When she finished, he reached forward, grabbed her wrist. Touch was a last ditch effort, his body still not quite his own even at the best of times. The sensation of skin meeting skin didn't quite register, felt detached and distant.

"Lydia, why won't you talk to me?"

The first sigh was sharp and impatient, the kind of sound she used to make at him. Refusing to recoil at the chilly expression, he held fast and waited. The second sigh was heavier, deeper. Tired.

"I feel empty," She admitted, shoving the suitcase down the bed and sitting in it's place. "I never realized Peter was even there, and now he's gone."

Stiles scooted closer to her, ignored the twinging in his side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and leaned back against the headboard. "I get it, the emptiness."

"I shouldn't feel empty because of him," She spat, tensing. "I shouldn't feel anything but glad that he's gone."

"I get that too," Stiles reminded her. It went without saying that he'd abhorred his own connection. Then again, at least he'd been aware of it. Lydia hadn't had that luxury. He squeezed her shoulder gently, it was all he could manage, and settled deeper into the bed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm glad he's dead."

"I'm more sorry that you're dealing with-" He waved his hand, unsure of how to articulate a loss that wasn't really a loss at all. A consequence, maybe. It still seemed too harsh a word. Lydia and Scott both had been dragged in against their will, but unlike Scott, Lydia hadn't had immediate perks. Out of all of them, she'd been the most screwed over and still managed to come out on top.

"I'm really proud of you," He told her, squeezing again. "I'm not sure I ever said that."

Lydia didn't immediately respond with the biting quip he was expecting. Instead, she leaned into him a little more, still treating him carefully. It was something he wouldn't miss, the spun glass feeling everyone seemed to evoke with ease.

"No one's said that," She whispered. "Not since-Not since I graduated."

It was infuriating and bewildering to hear, made Stiles wonder if she had any people in her life that actually understood her. Although, most of them only knew her as aspects, piecemeal bits and parts she allowed them to see. Her family would never know about her magic or Peter, her magister would never know about her scholastic accomplishments. None of them knew about Jackson or Aiden or her clawing her way out of Beacon Hills with almost nothing.

"I am so, so proud of you. For getting out, for coming back and facing him," He repeated, feeling like it needed to be said. "For being the most brilliant witch of our generation." It was a total ripoff from Harry Potter, but that was fine, maybe even warranted. Cheesy moments between them were few and far between, and he was going to take advantage of it while it lasted.

The blush staining her cheeks didn't detract from her smile. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"I'm proud of you too. Especially for figuring out the stave."

"What stave?"

"The one on Derek's back. We were trying to figure out what it was for, remember? It nullifies magic."

"I didn't-" He paused, thinking about drawing the sigil on Derek's back, an unconscious movement. He'd guessed at it, but he hadn't _known_. "Seriously? That's the one I drew?"

She hummed. "It wasn't complete, but I was able to finish it. It's how I got everyone in."

That seemed as good a segueway as any. "What was-No one will tell me exactly what happened. Just that Derek had killed Peter and I was unconscious."

He felt the shudder that tightened Lydia's muscles, rolling through her as though the winter chill outside had blown in. "You remember that line in Lord of the Rings? Not dark, but as beautiful and terrible as the dawn?"

Stiles nodded. It had been one of his favorite passages, the book itself a hundred times more terrifying to him as a child than the movie had ever been.

"He was like that. I could hear fire," She murmured, voice quiet, breathy. Almost as if she was reliving a dream. Or a nightmare. "I've never seen anything like that."

Stiles heard the unspoken declaration. She never wanted to see it again. He remembered the first time Derek had Risen to alpha, remembered the terror that had bolted through him, flavored with an awe that had been lost to everyone else. Maybe he'd felt something of it then, actually seen something no one else had. Fire, he could remember it, had chalked it up to Peter's death. Psychosomatic whispers in his head, against his skin because of trauma. If Lydia was right, it was possible he'd felt the shift in a way no one else present had.

"You were quiet. I couldn't hear anything," She added a few minutes later, voice smaller than he could remember it ever being. "I thought you were dead."

Stiles rubbed his cheek against her hair in what he hoped was a comforting motion as she continued.

"There was blood everywhere. I thought it was yours too, not just Peter's. You were just-It was silence, like when you sacrificed yourself, worse, maybe." She shook her head, took a deep breath as if steeling herself. "It was like that place, the emptiness."

"I was in the white room."

"What?" She asked, pulling away so she could face him. "The white room? You mean limbo?"

He nodded, unsure of how to explain to her what he'd seen, what had happened. Scott might understand, he'd been there before. Lydia though, he had no idea. "It was broken. The part where the stump was was gone, like a black hole had gotten to it." Or it had turned into a black hole. The distinction probably wasn't important. The effect was the same.

"But part of it was left?" She pressed. He didn't blame her. Life and death had been her cornerstone, limbo the sort of concept she would naturally latch onto.

"It crumbled when I stepped into the forest."

"The forest? Stiles, you just said the nemeton was gone."

"It wasn't the nemeton. It was some place else."

"Like another plane or astral traveling?" Lydia sounded skeptical, not that he really blamed her. Most of the magic they'd heard of in the new age books sounded like wishful thinking and hallucinations. But the white room and the forest-It hadn't been in his own head. He'd never seen a place like either in real life, couldn't remember anything that his mind could use to create a dreamscape like either.

"Dunno," He shrugged. "I've dreamed of it before, maybe it was just that. A coma dream, or something."

Lydia seemed dissatisfied with his answer but didn't pursue it, settled for leaning back against him. He alternated back to appreciating the care everyone was exerting while attempting to handle him. Uncomfortable questions would be saved for later, or maybe even never. There was a chance none of them would be interested in talking about that week unless they absolutely had to. Even Lydia. Maybe especially Lydia, who had escaped and come back.

"Derek wouldn't let us near you, so we had to sedate him. Miles was the one that did it. He inhaled some and was woozy for awhile, but Derek got most of it. When we realized you were alive-Your dad turned into Chris on steroids, shouting orders and commands. I've never seen him like that. It wasn't until Allison tried to take over Derek that it went south."

"What did she do?"

"She wanted to take him to the warehouse."

Stiles tilted his head, hoped the movement translated into the obvious question.

"It's something we set up after an omega came through on a full moon. Scott likes to think of it as a short term cell."

"If he wasn't-If he was feral like everyone says, it doesn't sound like a bad idea." As much as he hated the thought of Derek locked up, he understood the necessity. A feral alpha could do more damage than he cared to contemplate. And not matter how minute the damage, it would be something else Derek would have felt guilty for.

"What Scott doesn't like to think about is the generator used to keep wolves from transforming until the moon is waning again."

_Oh._

"Jesus." He was tempted to demand someone attach Allison to a generator so she could get an idea of how it felt. It might temper her gung-ho attitude towards the option.

Lydia nodded. "I've never seen anyone turn on her that fast, but Scott finally got his shit together and acted like an alpha. Told her a hunter's presence wasn't necessary and to go home."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope," Lydia said, popping with word with obvious relish. Stiles decided against asking when she'd lost all of her goodwill towards Allison. Some things weren't his problem, and he had enough to deal with without poking into other people's, even Lydia's. "I don't know what happened between all of them, or what's going to happen, but it won't be pretty."

"Huh." That was new. No wonder Scott was camped out at his mom's. Allison wouldn't have taken that well, and Issac seemed to be in Allison's corner more than Scott's. Another problem that wasn't his to worry about.

"They ended up taking him to Deaton's."

"Because that was _better_?"

"My house had to be remodeled. Deaton is the only place he would have been safe."

"Deaton. Safe," He repeated flatly.

"Scott and Caroline both threatened him. I'm pretty sure if Derek had gotten a cold they would have killed him."

"That's-Reassuring." Sort of.

"He didn't come back until your dad managed to get through to him and tell him you were alive."

"Oh." He'd assumed, but having it laid out so plainly solidified it, somehow. Made it more trustworthy.

Lydia huffed. "You two are complete idiots."

"Not going to argue that."

"So what are you going to do?" It was the obvious question no one was asking. Lydia was the first, and probably the only person that would. It was startling to realize that she was probably the only one that could get away with it. No bone in the fight. She was probably the only person he could trust talking to about it. Too bad he had no idea what to say.

"Dunno. I'll figure it out when I get there."

"Still flying by the seat of your pants?"

"I prefer to think of it as creative problem solving."

Lydia made another half amused, half disdained sound.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Just because I'm not stalking you anymore doesn't mean I'm blind."

"I'm so over the crises are romantic thing."

"And yet."

"Yet nothing," She huffed. "Payton's fun, but that's all it is."

"Fair enough."

Lydia exhaled, relaxed again. "Whatever you decide to do, I've got your back," She told him, an echo of a promise he'd given her months before.

He'd probably need it. "Thanks."

* * *

"For the love of Christ, I can drive the rest of the way on my own," Stiles snapped at Payton. "I haven't taken any painkillers for the last six hours." Even though his side was killing him. He'd anticipated this, had wanted to drive his jeep home and crawl into his own bed. He'd been so desperate, in fact, that he'd gone ahead of Cassie, ignoring the courtesy call to let her know he was coming home in favor of letting her enjoy some more time with Matthias. After a few days with his dad and his dad's not so subtle relationship advice (all unasked for, and equally unappreciated) he was more than ready to escape. Added with Scott's awkward attempts at inquiring about his life and Lydia brushing off Payton's advances, he'd been contemplating sneaking out under the cover of darkness.

"Call me when you get back," Payton demanded, looking more serious than Stiles was used to seeing. "Lydia will have my hide otherwise."

"Sounds like she already has it anyway," Stiles grumbled, getting out so he could switch to the driver's side. Payton muttered something in gaelic, probably an insult if his tone was anything to go by. Stiles resisted the urge to stick out his tongue and got into the driver's seat before slamming the door shut.

"Are you sure?" Payton began. Stiles waved and pulled out in answer, turning the jeep and hitting the gas, probably a little too hard. Payton shouted something that was lost before Stiles could hear it.

Home.

The drive was almost excruciating, every red light conspiring against him, along with two separate accidents that had traffic slowing to a crawl so people could gawk and stare. Once he hit the road that left the city and suburbs behind, he picked up speed, traffic dwindling until it was only him on the road. Relaxing into his seat, he tried to anticipate what getting home would be like. Derek hadn't called, hadn't made any move at all to contact him. Stiles understood why, even if it chaffed at old wounds. Derek had killed his uncle and become and alpha again. Their lives were in flux, again.

Nothing they hadn't dealt with before. Hopefully this time they were at least half prepared for it.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, he was willing to murder for painkillers, of the pill or werewolf variety, he wasn't going to be picky. Derek's truck was gone, the house itself dark. Biting back the whimper of pain regardless, he twisted back and tugged his clothing duffel free. His painkillers were in there, and it appeared he'd be having to make do with those for the time being. After finally getting out and getting it over his good shoulder, he slammed the door and limped up to the porch.

After three minutes of climbing the stairs and fumbling with the keys, cursing the growing darkness, he got inside and automatically hung his keys on one of the coat hooks, then shuffled to the living room.

His favorite quilt was over the back already, like some sort of sign from god. He rifled through his bag and found the baggie of pill bottles, popped open one and took two dry before leaning back and closing his eyes.

Derek would be back soon. Maybe he could help him up the stairs.

(He dreamed of a library, shelves and shelves of books written in a familiar hand. He consumed the titles greedily, a child anticipating the possibilities each one offered.)

* * *

The morning light coming in through the stretch of bow windows woke him up, needling insistently past his eyelids. Combined with the persistent ache in his side, Stiles couldn't get back to sleep, even after tugging the quilt over his head. Giving up, he threw the quilt back and pushed himself up, wondered when he'd laid down across the couch.

The house was eerily quiet, no noises but his own betraying presence. Derek hadn't come back.

Stiles ignored the hurt sensation thudding hollowly in his chest and reached for his pill bottle, taking one dry before getting to his feet and shuffling to the half bathroom. Stairs were still too intimidating a prospect to contemplate, especially when he felt like he'd slept on a concrete floor.

After finishing, he stumbled into the kitchen, intent on eating something before the nausea set in.

The fridge was full of groceries he'd bought the day before he'd left, spoiled. The smell almost knocked him on his ass, made him recoil and cover his nose. He closed the door and decided on soup, making a note to clean the fridge out later. Mundane things, little things that grounded him in his own skin. He most definitely did not ask himself why Derek hadn't done it if he'd been back for a week.

Deciding that he was already cheating, he ignored the stove in favor of the microwave, not even bothering to cover his bowl before he watched it spin.

The first sign of something off was the thick manilla envelope on the table, previously unnoticed because his books were stacked neatly, a sign of Derek's tic (Stiles was endlessly amused by Derek's need to make the bindings line up). It was laying flat on the center of the table, his name written in Derek's blocky script.

Stiles knew a lot about letters. He knew nothing good ever came in them, especially not in manilla sized ones packed with a thick stack of papers. Most of his bills came in the mail, insurance information, student loan stuff, annoying, obnoxious things that reminded him he was a functional adult outside of his work with the pack, a normal human being. Other, more unpleasant things came in the mail. Like eviction notices.

He stared at it, debating whether or not to open it before he ate or after. Maybe if he waited, the pill would kick in, blur and soften whatever blow was coming.

His soup was tepid by the time he remembered he was supposed to eat it instead of wait for some sort of sign to open the envelope. Despite being so hungry he was tempted to tip the bowl back like an oversized cup, he took his time. One spoonful after another, a trudging march that tried to stave off the inevitable disappointment. When he'd finished, he stared at the last dregs at the bottom of the bowl, couldn't recall what kind of soup he'd even made.

Still functioning purely on the power of denial, he got up and washed his dishes, almost wished he'd used the stove for an extra pan to clean. Time. He'd been stalling. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt, but it was only delaying the inevitable, and he wasn't sure which option was worse.

All roads led to Rome.

He put the dishes on the drying wrack and walked back to the table. The painkillers dulled the pain in his side, but his mind felt unnaturally clear as he opened the envelope and pulled out the sheaf of papers.

The first page had 'Gift Deed' printed in bold lettering at the top, dates and names scribbled out in print and almost illegible cursive.

He began looking over the paperwork, reading through several very technical, official sounding lines.

When it hit him exactly what it was, Stiles had his fifth crisis of faith in as many years.

Stiles was tempted to burn the evidence knowing the futility of the gesture. Derek had already registered everything, and fucking Christ, he hadn't even known you could deed a property without needing the new owner's signature. How was that possible, to just give a house to someone without their input?

Because Stiles' name was there, his real, full name. On the deed to the property.

At twenty one, he was a homeowner, and he didn't even have to worry about a mortgage. It was the stuff dreams were made of.

If said dreams included Derek disappearing into the wild blue yonder, never to be seen or heard from again. Because Stiles knew that was exactly what Derek was doing. What he was saying without saying anything. There were no personal notes, nothing but legal documentation. Paper after paper of legalese he hadn't even known was possible.

It was a goodbye.

He carefully slipped everything back into the envelope and walked upstairs. Derek's bedroom hadn't been 'off limits' for awhile, maybe not since he'd officially moved in when he was eighteen. But he'd really never had a reason to go in. Derek had almost always slept next to him, in his beds. Whether it had been at the apartment, or when they were at Caroline and Rick's or in their own house. So entering Derek's room didn't feel so much like a personal invasion as it felt like seeing a part of Derek even Derek had never seemed to be too involved in.

The bed was similar to his own, actually, it was almost a replica of the one at Caroline's. Except it was the other way around, wasn't it? Stiles stared at it, wondering what that meant, if it meant anything at all. The nightstands too, and the dresser-

Stiles stared at the dresser, his heart twisting in recognition.

The vase sat on top of it, alone and completely empty. Sad, for it's drooping side and the lingering traces of scorched glass. In the years since he'd brought the boxes to Derek, he'd forgotten about it. Seeing it brought that night back. It hadn't been the first time he'd tried to help Derek, but it had felt significant then, and it still did through the blur time and nostalgia gave it. The vase proved that less had changed than he thought, that some things would probably never change.

Carefully, like opening the drawer would upset the whole and send the vase toppling, he pulled the top drawer out and slipped the envelope inside. Even with his human nose he caught the scent of Derek wafting up and had to resist the impulse to root around in it.

He figured, given his and Derek's track records of being stubborn, short sighted morons, he'd have to soon enough anyway. Still, closing it was almost torture.

Giving the vase one last, lingering glance, he walked back downstairs and to the front door, reached for his keys and stopped. The painkillers were already messing with him, his depth perception slightly skewed and his head strangely light, a bubble inside of it widening. No escape, at least not that way.

He considered calling Cassie and immediately thought better of it. Cassie would have a meltdown, and she was still at a bed and breakfast near Crater Lake, enjoying the aftermath with Matthias. Even though he wasn't sure he wasn't in the process of having a complete break from reality, he couldn't call and drop that news over the phone. Actually, he had no idea how he was going to tell her. Or anyone. Surely Caroline was expecting both him and Derek to show up at some point. And Rick too-Christ.

He tried to move, staggered forward and then back until he was leaning against the door. The front door to his house.

(Hours passed and he slowly slid further and further down, oblivious to the aches and pains slowly returning as the drugs faded. His house. It had never felt more foreign.)

* * *

Waking in pain, his entire body reminding him that he'd fallen through a floor and been treated like a rag doll by a werewolf, Stiles almost forgot why he'd fallen asleep on the floor, he neck bent at an unnatural angle against the front door. He used the door knob to pull himself up and hobbled to the kitchen for a glass of water, then stumbled and shuffled to the living room where the orange pill bottles waited, an ugly contrast to the dark wood of the coffee table. He shook out the multiple anti-pills, three in all and slammed him palm against his open mouth, a bitter taste immediately assaulting his tongue. He chugged water down and swallowed several times before reaching for the bottle of painkillers and popping the lid, shaking three into his hand and repeating the process.

The lingering smell of burnt hair and flesh ghosted past his nostrils, made his stomach rebel even as his throat tightened, choked the water and bile back down.

Crossed wires. Maybe his brain was malfunctioning, a delayed reaction to the nemeton or a side effect of the different medications he was on. Or he was giving in to the nervous breakdown he'd been fending off from the moment he'd seen his best friend turning into a werewolf.

He stared ahead at the bow windows, remembering what a bitch it had been to hang them, how he and Derek had argued for hours about changing them entirely, because Derek hated having so many windows on his house. Vulnerable spots, easy to use for any number of things, escape being the only 'good' option. The blackout curtains hung limp, covered in dust. A testament to how comfortable they'd gotten.

The bubble in his head expanded, made him dizzy. Pain receded, turned into an echoing throbbing. Giving in to the tip and whirl and trying to hide from the sudden unbearable brightness, he pulled the quilt over his head and closed his eyes.

(The dream was a pleasant one. He and Derek were playing Horse, mocking each other.)

* * *

Groggy, he blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. The quilt had slipped down, puddled into his lap. Stiles pushed it to the side and stretched, stopping when pain flared up his side. Using the sofa arm as a crutch, he pushed himself up to his feet and stumbled through the darkness, instinctively reaching for the switch.

Everything felt like a dream, reality distorting around the cotton stuffing filling the space where his brain had been. He tried to remember getting back to the sofa and failed, wondered if it had all been a nightmare. God knew he'd earned the right to a few new ones, but Derek running away and leaving the house-

Gripping door frames for support, he moved to the dining room, saw the neatly stacked books but no envelope, no sign that he'd eaten there. The kitchen, likewise, looked unused. He didn't try to check the fridge, just navigated his way through the house, turning on all the lights as he went.

Too afraid to call out Derek's name, he pulled himself up the stairs like he was climbing a mountain, gripping the railing like a lifeline. By the time he got into the upstairs hall, he was panting, side protesting with every inhalation. Like the fridge, he ignored the door to his bedroom and took small steps towards the end of the hall. He leaned against the wall for support, dark spots dancing in front of his vision.

Perhaps stupidly, still clinging to blind hope, he knocked. There was no answer. Opening the door, he flicked on the light and looked at the dresser. The vase, with it's warped, fire blackened side was sitting on top. Breathing shallowly and attempting some semblance of rhythm, he counted through his inhales and exhales, gripped the stand of drawers and pulled the top one free. The manilla envelope sat on top of the clothes, his name staring back at him.

He didn't even try to close the drawer, too busy trying not to fall over as he spun on his heel and strode out of the room, the floor wobbling beneath his feet. The stairs didn't cooperate either, seemed to be pitching up and down like he was on a boat until he was clinging to the rail and trying not to fall forward.

The light in his eyes felt unbearably bright, sharp like needles poking into his retinas. Pain and grogginess warred, his body and absent brain making focus impossible. He found himself in the living room, not entirely sure how he got there. He automatically reached for the pill bottle, half expecting his adderall and finding the painkillers in his palm with a careless tap of the bottle over his fingers.

Jesus fuck he hurt all over, and the painkillers were the obvious answer. No werewolf magic to steal his pain, not now. Maybe never again, the idea of touch making his skin crawl. But an abrupt terror, equal to the desire made itself known, the first clear thought he'd had since waking. He'd used pills before, and he'd almost succeeded in killing himself. It was too tempting to take one extra, to take any at all for whatever relief it would give. And yet-

The pain throbbed through him relentlessly, his body threatening to turn on him, pull him under until it consumed him. The void loomed beneath it, a deep well of nothingness that the pain would drag him into. More tempting than morphine, it would be an absence, a never ending fall where he could forget. Oblivion.

He choked on a noise, an expression of something even he couldn't decipher. The pill bottle dropped, pills scattering on the coffee table, pale pink dots decorating the sloping lines of the grain. The first tendrils of his gift rolled out, wound around him and reached further into his surrounds, attempting to find something, anything to latch on to to keep him anchored firmly in the world.

Derek was gone, leaving him with nothing but memories to keep him from slipping down into the void.

(He dreamed of rocks jutting out from the ocean, jagged teeth framed in rhythmic bursts of white foam. Salt burned his tongue and the sun danced on the water clinging to his eyelashes. Laughter echoed just below the surface of the waves.)

* * *

Stiles forgot how long it had been since he'd gotten back, not bothering to do the math based on the antibiotics and antiinflammatories gone from the bottles. (He didn't dare touch the narcotics, his muscles tensing anxiously any time he even considered reaching for them.) The pain didn't lessen, though it became a constant, something he'd grown used to. And the narcotic cycled out of his system completely, left him clear headed in a way he hadn't been since he'd woken up in the hospital.

It was midafternoon when he woke up and dutifully took his medication before limping to the kitchen, trying not to put any weight on his leg. He was a greasy mess, and he knew it. There was the distant awareness that he should take a shower, scrub himself raw and put on fresh clothes, but the stairs were a daunting prospect at best, an agonizing five minutes at worst. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt.

He stared at his kitchen, stocked with pots and pans he'd had absolutely no say in, but had loved anyway. The new breadmaker to replace the one Cassie had broken, the bits and bobs he'd bought, splashes of novelty uselessness he'd bought purely to destroy the professional aesthetic of the kitchen (which in turn accomplished the goal of annoying Derek). His kitchen. His house.

It hit, really hit for the first time. He owned the house he was standing in, and everything in it. He owned the workshop and the garage, which probably still had a fortune's worth of carpentry equipment in it. He owned several acres of land. The property taxes would be in his name.

Air. He needed air. Cool, cold air. Not the stale air that seemed to echo his own funk, but fresh air. He staggered to the back door, fumbled with the locks and threw it open, leaning against the frame as he dragged in deep lungfuls of air.

His house. How was he ready to own a house? Or to be an emissary? Or to function like a normal, sane human being? He felt like he was devolving, years of experience and hard work crumbling away to reveal the insecure, scared teenager he'd been. Fifteen and running from Peter. Sixteen and running from hunters and kanima. Seventeen and killing himself because it was a better option than living knowing his father was dead. Eighteen and alone in his room, plotting any and every possible escape to Portland. His safe place.

Fury swept through him, crashing into the shock and disbelief and shattering it until there was only anger. Blind and consuming, the pain was barely a memory. The idyllic backdrop of the deck and the woods was nauseating, suddenly. A dream he'd been stupid enough to have faith in. He stepped back into the house, slammed the door. Buzzing, thrumming energy raced under his skin. Adrenaline snapping and popping, urging movement, carrying him restlessly through the house.

The temptation to destroy something, anything, _everything_ , made his fingers itch, made his fists clench as he stared at a wall, not seeing it. It would be easy, he'd done it before. Destroyed a house, pulled it apart, shattered it. Bombed it.

It would be easier now, knowing how little it actually meant to Derek. A summer of steady work, months of side projects after-None of it had meant much, hadn't meant anything, apparently.

His fist broke through the drywall, although he registered the pain blossoming in his hand before he realized what it was he'd done. White dust clung to the broken skin, the scrapes on his knuckles already beginning to bleed. Immediately the urge to fix it, to cover it up assailed him. Fury pushed back, angry nonchalance because it was his house now, wasn't it? He could fuck it up and leave it, could do anything. He could have it razed and no one could stop him. No one was there to stop him.

His fist hit once, again, and again, new holes appearing in the sheetrock before he struck against a stud. A hoarse cry wrenched itself free of his throat, painful and raw. His hand didn't hurt, didn't feel anything at all but a dull, steady throbbing. But his wrist and arm ached, pain bolting up his limb, sharp and plaintive.

His house. His fucking hole in the wall. His mess to clean up.

He started with sweeping. Somehow, he made it upstairs to the shower. And by some minor miracle, he pulled on sweatpants and shirt. Exhausted by his efforts, he dragged himself to Derek's room. There were no memories there, not of them, not even of Derek. It was probably the safest place in the house.

(The mist rolled in, soupy around his body. Heartbeats echoed in the distance, two powers meeting and converging into a steady rhythm.)

* * *

He'd lost track of the days when Caroline and Rick showed up on his doorstep, knocking politely but insistently. When the knocking continued, Stiles dragged himself out of Derek's bed and limped down the stairs, knowing what was coming.

"Are you alright?" Caroline demanded the moment he opened the door, eyes widening as she took in his appearance. He barely resisted the urge to slam the door in her face, instead chose to ignore the question and stepped to the side in silent invitation.

They moved quietly, cautiously through the house. Stiles couldn't miss Rick's worried gaze taking in the holes in the wall and Caroline's less obvious but equally apprehensive sniffing.

"Be back in a minute," He told them. It was probably best to get everything out in the open with them before trying to talk to Cassie about it. Days of sitting and stewing in dreams and sleep hadn't given him any ideas on how to broach to subject. If anything, he felt more lost than he had before, reality still not quite tangible. It took him several minutes to get up the stairs to Derek's room to retrieve the packet and get back down, his side screaming at him. His cheek hurt where he bit it, trying to stifle the pained sounds determined to escape.

When he sat down at the kitchen table and sat the manilla envelope on the wooden surface, Caroline reached out, movement automatic. Her hand rested on his, fingers covering the bruised and swollen skin of his knuckles. Black veins stood out on her hand, wove up her arm even as the pain in his side and leg dulled to something manageable. His knuckles buzzed, like his hand had fallen asleep. That particular pain hadn't even registered compared to the rest of his body. Now his fingers felt relaxed, too relaxed, borderline numb.

"Derek isn't here," She observed quietly, moving her hand to let it rest on the table. Stiles wondered if that was something that would change too, their easy way with one another.

Instead of asking, he answered her by pulling out the sheaf of papers and dropping them unceremoniously on the table, the paper slapping against the wood.

Rick glanced at the bold, black lettering and heaved a gusty exhale. "He left."

Stiles nodded woodenly, the words finally said aloud. "This was the only thing. I tried his phone, it's been going straight to voicemail. I left him a couple of emails too, but he hasn't replied." Not that he'd expected anything different.

Caroline snarled out a curse, bitter and quietly venomous. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, tasted blood, fought the urge to snap back at the insult.

"I should have known," She muttered, hands moving over the tabletop in restless patterns, claws lengthening in response to her anger. "Damnit."

"It's not your fault he left," Stiles muttered, rubbing his face. Despite sleeping for almost seven days straight, he was still so tired, exhausted every time he woke up. "He's scared of being an alpha again."

"His first response shouldn't have been to flee." It was censure, the exact same thought he had. It just wasn't acceptable because she was saying it, and he didn't care why,didn't care if it was hypocritical of him to be angry.

"His first round ended up with most of his pack dying," Stiles snapped, face heating with the first signs of temper. "It was a dumb move, but an understandable one. Considering you read his memories, I'd think you'd get that."

Caroline opened her mouth to retort when Rick touched her hand, demanding her attention. A quick shake of his head and her mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

"There's more to it, Stiles," Rick told him, voice serious but gentle.

"What more could there be?" Stiles groaned. Any more and he'd probably run too. _Christ_.

"Cassie's potential futures no longer lead to her becoming an alpha."

Stiles looked up from the table, saw the apprehension, the tense set of Rick's shoulders. "Why is that relevant?" More to the point, why did Rick look like he'd rather be anywhere but sitting in front of him, explaining the whys.

"I've been going over the spell structure you created. The outlying spiral would normally have given just the intent to grasp a thread, for whatever purpose."

"Okay, that was the point." He'd failed, but at least he'd tried.

"The stave in the center is infinitely more complex than the rest. It- I could study it for the next twenty years and probably still never fully grasp how it works, but in the barest essence, it was to weave."

"I-Yeah," Stiles admitted, looking between Caroline and Rick's serious expressions. "I wanted to draw it back to full circle. Peter was supposed to be dead, I wanted to link his future back to that point." It had seemed like the easiest solution to the problem, using Peter's own history against him.

"You did that," Rick agreed slowly. "You know how the threads are urðr, someone's entire life and potential futures."

"Yeah,"Stiles said, drawing the word out. He'd read a dozen books on the concept because it had seemed like the most plausible metaphor for what Rick taught him.

"No one person is an island. Their threads intersect with other people's. When you manipulate one, others resonate."

He had an awful feeling Rick was about to tell him something he didn't want to hear. "If you could stop with the piecemeal explanation, I'd be really grateful."

Rick shook his head, actually looking frayed at the edges, frazzled, if Stiles was in the mood to be whimsical. He wasn't.

"You read the theory of urðr and örlög, and the three norns. Do you remember how they aren't like the three fates most people recognize?" Rick asked. Stiles nodded slowly. The Norse concept of time wasn't linear, the past and future both relatively fluid. It had been the basis of his idea in the first place. "What you did is become an agent of those three concepts at once, shaping his threads and weaving them. Örlög. In doing so, you affected the threads, the lives, of the people that were most closely linked with Peter."

His stomach was churning violently, the first signs of sickness. "Are you saying I did it?" Stiles managed around the taste in his mouth. "I turned Derek into an alpha?" He'd arranged for Derek to kill his own uncle?

"I'm saying that when you intentionally altered Peter's fate, you indirectly altered the futures of the people that were in contact with it."

"That's a yes," He muttered viciously, though all of his fury was directed solely at himself. Rick was just telling him how epically he'd fucked up. Again.

"It's the most likely theory. As far as we can tell, Cassie would have killed Peter and become the alpha. It wasn't the future we'd given the most consideration, but it was an outcome we'd considered."

"You'd considered it?" He demanded, voice pitched with incredulity. _Considered_ , like they would plans for a wedding or for the day Cassie decided to move out.

"We had to account for every possibility, Stiles," Caroline murmured, her hand back on his, leeching pain. It didn't calm the nausea, didn't help the vertigo as the darkness beneath his feet swelled up, pushing at the fragile threads suspending him. "There's more than one way to become an alpha."

"So you're saying I shifted everyone's fate."

Rick shrugged, at an obvious loss. "There's rarely a definite fate," He sighed. "You took the potentials for what the natural progression would have been and braided them with an intent. It was for Peter to receive a punishment that fit his past. Maybe because you were both tied to the currents at the time, that affected it. I can't be sure, and I'm not entirely certain we'll ever know."

Stiles leaned back in his chair, attempting to assimilate the new information. All of the magical bells and whistles aside, he'd turned Derek into an alpha, used him like a weapon, a means to an end.

"This is all my fault."

"No," Caroline said, shaking her head. "You didn't plan for this, Stiles-"

"I should have known better," He bit out, self loathing roiling, churning in his stomach.

"You couldn't have known, that's the point," Rick told him, voice firm. It was his teacher voice, an older, more experienced emissary speaking down to him. Stiles tried not to resent it, just as much attempted to resist the urge to blindly believe it. "The judgment was based off of Peter's actions. His history shaped it, not you personally."

"And if I hadn't?"

"You might be dead," Rick said, voice flat. "Derek might have died. Many people, in fact, would have probably died. Cassie wouldn't kill otherwise. You know her. I'm more than willing to lay odds that she'd only kill in response to one or both parts of her anchor being killed or her own life being in immediate danger of ending."

Stiles rested his elbows on the table, cradled his face to hide the angry flush burning his cheeks. Could be's and might have beens. There was no way to tell, except the sudden change in Cassie's future. There could have been any number of situations where she would have killed Peter, or maybe Derek becoming an alpha had simply altered the course of her life. Maybe-

He stilled around that thought.

Life altering decisions made under the influence of emotional distress. He was twenty one, he should know better. But there weren't many options open to him, and of those, only one he could actually live with.

Reality was a bitter pill. At some point he'd started caring about so many people, and he hated it, hated how he felt like he was screwing up by even contemplating walking away. Gone were the days where his dad and Scott were the only people he could have given a damn about, replaced with a responsibility he hadn't considered constricting until it was tested. But he was still selfish and self centered at heart. He cared about the pack. Packs. But he still cared about Derek more. And it felt like shit, thumb circling the pendant, but he was pretty sure he'd do immeasurable things, colossally stupid, horrifying things, if it meant doing what Derek needed.

He had no idea if he should be terrified or not, because at least Allison had a code, Scott had his ideals. His causes had always been specific people, was now a frighteningly specific person; rested on the shoulders of someone that was as stupid and fucking hotheaded as he was, as prone to dying regardless of superior genetics and had any number of emotionally crippling complexes. Stiles wondered if that was how his dad had sunk himself so low, if that was why he'd been so goddamn lost and borderline incapable after his mother had died. He hadn't been any better, lost and wandering inside of his own head for days.

He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes, relishing in the brief hint of ache and flickers of light.

Air settled in his lungs between each inhale and exhale, carefully held. One, two, three, out two three. Hold two three. The breathing pattern Derek used to pull him out of panic attacks. Different from his dad multiplication tables, or Lydia's kiss.

Rick made a sad sound of acceptance when he pulled the chain from over his head and slipped the two rings free, keenly feeling the absence of the third. He held the pendant out, wondering why it hurt so much to offer it back.

"I'm sorry," He choked out. "I can't-" _Can't care about your pack like I need to, can't care like I'm supposed to. Not about dozens of people, not at the expense of Derek_.

"We knew the minute we saw Derek," Caroline murmured gently, as her husband reached out and took the pendant back. "When you made your oaths, you were making them with Derek and Cassie in mind. We weren't foolish enough to believe otherwise."

"So you always expected me to leave?"

"We knew there was a chance," Caroline admitted. "If it had been with Cassie as alpha, we knew then you would follow her. Even though Derek was the one to Rise, nothing has changed."

"Except the fact that he's not here," Stiles muttered, unsure of what to do. The rings bit into the flesh of his clenched fist, just shy of painful.

"He needs time," She sighed. "Derek's never stopped acting as an alpha in his own right. Because of his connection to Cassie, we didn't try to stop it. It seems it was for the best."

"He's never tried to be anything but a beta," Stiles snapped out, too angry at the insinuation to remind her how final the property deed was, how it was the opposite of 'he needs time'.

"Derek wanted to build and maintain something bigger, better than just himself. That's not the instinct of a beta, but an alpha. What we thought was a holdover from his time as alpha never went away, and we never tried to force otherwise. We'd hoped Cassie would learn from his example. And now it's a moot point."

"So you're saying, what?"

"You three have been a pack within a pack for years," Caroline told him, taking his hand in hers. "Derek just needs time."

Time, like he would suddenly pop back up and demand to have his house back. "And until then?"

"I suppose the first order of business is offering haven to you and anyone that considers themselves Derek's pack."

"I can't oath to an absent alpha."

"Traditions never stopped you before," Rick said, offering a ghost of a smile. Stiles tried to smile back, failed.

"Okay," He said, the word full of air and sigh. "Okay. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing."

"Welcome to adulthood," Rick said with a hint of wry mirth.

"It sucks."

"It has it's rewards," Caroline hummed. "Stiles, it will be alright."

She'd said every platitude he'd been hoping to avoid. Checklist complete.

"Except I'm a new homeowner and emissary to an alpha that's not here, with a pack of one beta. What could possibly go wrong?" He demanded sarcastically, doubting the universe could actually make his life any more difficult than it already had.

"You give yourself too little credit," Caroline hummed. "All of you are stronger than you know."

"How are we going to tell Cassie?" Because it was everything Cassie had ever been afraid of.

"Cassie already submitted to Derek, however informally," Caroline told him, growing sad. Stiles reached out, grabbed her hand in his. He didn't know much about packs splitting, about a wolf leaving to begin with, except that it hurt the alpha being left, almost as much as the death of a beta did. Given that Caroline had prepared herself for the eventuality, sure that Cassie would become an alpha, only to have her leave because of her loyalty to another alpha-

"I always knew she'd follow you," Caroline admitted, smiling sadly. "I don't resent you or Derek for that, don't even think it. She will always be my daughter, even if she's Derek's beta."

Stiles heard all the things Caroline wasn't saying, knew there were things he couldn't ask, things his former alpha told only her husband and sister, if she said them to anyone.

"Thank you, for understanding."

"It's our way," Caroline said, voice firm again, as if she'd slipped by even giving hint to what she was feeling. "And I wouldn't count on it being just one."

"Who the hell else would want this?"

"Perhaps Matthias," Rick reminded him. "Tim and Annette will probably follow as well."

"That-"

"It's a possibility to consider, Stiles." The way Rick said it made the declaration sound less like a possibility and more like something already decided. Another thing he had no idea about how to handle.

"Without the alpha present, I can't offer alliance," Caroline said. "But I can offer help to my family. If there's anything you need, never hesitate to ask."

"And it should go without saying that you're still welcome in our home," Rick added.

"It's really that easy?" Stiles breathed. It felt too easy, like a trap was waiting. Or maybe it just hadn't registered yet. Shock. That made sense.

"Nothing about this will be easy," Rick corrected. "But simple, perhaps."

Stiles nodded, rubbing his face. Simple, but not easy. That sounded about right.

"I suppose we should mention our original reason for coming here," Caroline added, almost as an afterthought.

"What else?" Maybe there was a rogue omega running around eating people's organs. It would fit the pattern his life seemed determined to follow.

"Scott and I have been arranging for him to come up here. Alpha lessons, so to speak," Caroline began slowly, testing the waters.

"He mentioned that before," Stiles nodded.

"Because of the difficulties in the past, we weren't sure if he would be comfortable in the guest suite in our home-" Rick said, trailing off.

"And you wanted to see if here would be okay?"

"Only if you're comfortable with it," Caroline amended. "If you're not, I completely understand."

Stiles rubbed his face. "Sure. He and I need to work through some crap too."

"Are you-" Caroline hesitated, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. "I'd understand if there's too much going on right now, Stiles. No one would think less of you for needing space."

"I need to figure out things with Scott," He repeated. "Otherwise we'll just ignore it." And if he could fix at least one thing in his currently broken life, he'd take it.

"Alright," Rick said. "He'll be here in two weeks. Until then, if you need help with your home, paperwork, anything at all, you know Caroline and I are always here."

"Thanks."

"Cassie's been home for two days. Do you want me to ask her to wait before she comes over?"

Stiles started nodding, then shook his head. "No, we need to talk about it. It'd help if it was just her though."

"We'll let her know."

It was another anticlimatic end to a bomb dropped on his life. No pomp and ceremony, nothing at all like his oathing to Caroline or when he'd finished his apprenticeship. Just a quiet transition with almost nothing to mark it. It certainly wasn't a celebration, the entire process over and done so quickly Stiles couldn't help but feel like there was something shameful about it.

"If you need someone to talk to, company, anything," Rick said, pausing at the entrance to the room. "Never hesitate to ask."

"Thank you." The offers felt like bandaids for a problem he didn't know how to solve.

The front door opened and closed quietly, leaving him alone in the house. His house.

He was still sitting at the table when Cassie arrived, the front door slamming and her feet slapping against the floor. Her face was red, cold stung. Stiles offered a tired smile and felt like the worst person in the world.

"We need to talk."

Cassie sat down next to him, her hand moving to his side to leech the pain that had been slowly returning.

"I gave back the pendant."

Cassie hummed, exactly like her mother less than an hour before. "I expected you to. We're Derek's, he's ours." As though there had never been a question, and maybe there hadn't.

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. Hinting at it would only make it worse. Better to just say it. Maybe. "Derek left. He deeded the house to me, and he hasn't- He's gone."

"He- _Why_?"

Stiles could hear the hurt, the betrayal in her voice. Insecure. Cassie didn't want to be left alone, was scared of losing him and Derek both. Stiles empathized, wanted to hate Derek for it even though he understood Derek's reasons.

Cassie would need to understand them before she made a decision.

"Remember how Derek was an alpha before?" He asked, aware that he was probably breaking trust in a million different ways. But needs must, wasn't that it? Cassie had a right to know, should know before she committed herself.

"Yeah."

He started with Peter's first death, refusing to edit details or pull punches no matter how horrified Cassie looked. Derek's choices, what he'd done and what had been done to him between the moments he'd become and alpha and given it up, things that hadn't been spoken aloud since the house had been completed. Cassie cried, maybe for what they'd been through, or for all of the lives lost and destroyed, Stiles didn't know, didn't pause to ask, knew if he did he'd never finish explaining. It wasn't until he stopped, remembering the explosion that had rocked the preserve, that he realized she was holding his hand, crushing his fist more tightly around the rings.

"How did he-How did you survive all that?" She whimpered, eyes bloodshot and still covered in a sheen of tears.

"Luck. So much luck," He admitted, rubbing his face. Luck, and the power of love or friendship or just pure batshit insanity, depending on the day.

Cassie stood, tugged at his hands until he was standing too. He followed her, child like and not a little lost as she took him upstairs to his room. He hadn't slept in his bed for a week, hadn't felt like confronting the mess, the basket of clean laundry or the bed. Cassie didn't seem to care, pulled him down next to her. She practically had to pry his hand open before taking the rings and depositing them on his nightstand.

He was almost asleep, emotionally strung out when she tilted her head, shifted enough so their eyes could meet.

"Did you tell me that to make me understand or to make me run?"

"You deserve to make an informed decision," He told her, unsure of which answer was actually the truth. "It's not-It won't be like it is with your mom." It wouldn't be easy, would probably drive them both insane before it was over. _Simple_. He sneered at the word.

"I was ready to leave last year. That hasn't changed."

The year before felt like lifetimes ago, so much easier than the present. They'd all had each other then, had admitted guilts and faults and still been there. Now they were down one, and Stiles had no idea what the next logical step was. Derek had been the one to decide then, to keep them safe in Waldport until they were ready, had talked to them about where they would go, what they would do if they broke away.

"What about Matthias?" He finally asked.

"He knows I belong with you and Derek."

Stiles exhaled, wondered if he was making a mistake.

"You slept together," She said a few minutes later.

"Sort of."

"Don't bullshit me."

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you two finally pulled your heads out of your asses. I've been waiting for years."

Stiles actually laughed a little at that, though it came out broken, maybe even quietly hysterical. It ended in a sob, Cassie's arms wrapping around him. They both cried, mostly quiet, sometimes not. The immensity of Derek's absence finally hit, the terror and panic of the unknown bearing down on them both.

* * *

Stiles stared at the multitude of bags. Even though Matthias was the one visiting from a foreign country, there was only one actual suitcase. The rest was comprised of a couple of backpacks and big black trash bags.

"What are you doing?"

Cassie huffed and rolled her eyes. "What's it look like?"

"It looks like you're moving in."

"Good, I was worried you'd gone blind," She muttered, trudging past him, bags slung over her shoulders. "Miles has a spare frame he's bringing over tomorrow. We'll crash on the pullout tonight."

"Cas-"

Cassie whirled so quickly the black trashbags slung over her shoulder lifted up and out, barely missing him.

"No. I know what you're going to say, and the answer is no. This is our pack, and you're alone right now, which is completely unacceptable. So you can accept the whole thing gracefully, or you can sulk in your bedroom."

Stiles sent a pleading glance in Matthias' direction, but received a blank stare in return. No help from that corner, then. He raised his hands in surrender, too tired to try and fight her when she'd obviously made up her mind. "Alright."

Cassie made a satisfied sound, although there was still a hint of ire to it. "Miles is going to let us use his truck to move everything tomorrow."

"The green room is still empty-" Although they'd planned to make it a guest room and never quite gotten around to it. Scott was coming, and he'd considered getting a bed for it since Scott needed someplace other than the pullout couch to crash, but-

Oh Christ. Cassie and Scott in close proximity for extended periods of time. It couldn't end well.

"I'll do it," Cassie told him, nodding decisively. "Have you eaten yet tonight?"

Stiles shook his head. Eating was still touch and go, the most he could manage amounting to soup. He hadn't even cleaned out the fridge yet, although he had a sneaking suspicion that needed to change, and quickly.

"After you finish with that, go grab some food from the diner. I need to clean out the fridge." The windows would need to be opened, lest he send Cassie and Matthias both into coughing fits. Bleach didn't agree with werewolf noses, and he was coherent enough to recognize that Cassie wasn't nearly so stable as she appeared. If she realized how little he'd actually been doing, she'd probably lose it.

"Alright."

Matthias grabbed several of the bags and followed Cassie upstairs, still silent. Stiles watched them go and walked to the kitchen. He dragged the trashcan from it's corner to the fridge and opened it.

He really should have cleaned it out the moment he realized the food had spoiled. The smells that wafted out when he opened the door made his stomach churn as he began pulling everything out. One of the many downsides to a wolf's sensitive nose was that once one thing had gone off in a fridge, everything took on the scent. Shopping would be hell, his leg still bothering when he walked. Maybe he could beg off and get Cassie and Matthias to do it.

Item after item dropped into the trashcan, until he was sure the bag would break if he tried to pull it out. It wasn't until he thought about taking the whole thing to the dump that he remembered that they needed Derek's truck. Cassie's hybrid and his jeep were both wholly unsuited for it.

"Shit," He muttered, his eyes stinging. Maybe Cas was right, maybe he did need someone around to make sure he actually functioned.

He dropped everything else in and slammed the lid down before dragging the trashcan to the back door and then out onto the deck. After coming in and closing the door, he moved to open the window over the sink. Cold air slowly crawled in, reaching down into his skin.

Cassie called out that they'd be back soon before opening and slamming the front door, leaving him alone again.

He'd had time to wallow. It would have to be enough. Somehow he doubted Cassie would let him swaddle himself in nostalgia and self pity.

* * *

"You look like shit," Miles commented when he walked into the living room the next day. Stiles thanked whatever gods were listening that of everything that had changed, at least Miles hadn't. A gentler, nicer Miles would have probably sent him screaming for the hills.

"Feel like it," He admitted, leaning back into the couch. "Cassie's out with Matthias picking out a mattress."

"S'fine," Miles said, sitting down in the recliner. "Figured I'd talk to you a bit, see how you're holding up."

"Pretty well."

"Considering," Miles added, giving him a skeptical look. "I wanted to ask. You want me to try and find him?"

Stiles eyed Miles, forehead pinched in thought. "Not yet," He said, the words genuinely painful to get out. "He needs time."

Miles made a thoughtful noise, looking vaguely impressed, though for what, Stiles had no idea and no real wish to know. "You're being pretty understanding."

"I was there the first time."

Miles nodded, didn't press for more information. It was another minor blessing, and while not completely out of character for the skinwalker, Stiles thanked him.

"I know Caroline's probably already offered, but if you need any help, I've got your back."

Stiles gave in gracefully, hating to accept charity but knowing the necessity of it, at least until the world stopped tilting back and forth uncertainly. "I appreciate it."

"That being said, what are you doing with your apartment?"

He groaned, reality hitting him in the back of the head in a stunning impersonation of Harris. "I don't know." Rick had helped his dad file for medical hardship with the college, so his loans wouldn't be coming in to help him. His job at the bookstore wouldn't be enough to cover the rent with everything else he had to take up for the house. "I need to cancel my lease."

"I can help with that," Miles stated easily. "I've got experience with landlords. We can get you out of it without it fucking with your credit. I can help you move everything here too. Most of the guys have trucks, we can get it all in one trip."

"I'll need help getting it up to the attic." Actually, he was positive he wouldn't be able to manage the attic stairs at all. Not unless he had a death wish.

"Not a problem."

Now Miles was being the nicer Miles he'd been afraid of, and he said as much.

"You're in a shit spot," Miles shrugged. "I know what that can be like."

Stiles knew Miles had a story, anyone that chose to be neutral always did. It more than made him curious, but Miles was private in the way that Derek was private. If and when he wanted to talk about it, he would.

The front door slammed open, and Stiles wondered if he'd have to patch another hole. He'd been trying to muster the energy for the ones he'd made. (And failing miserably.) Another made by Casie might actually give him the impetus to stop procrastinating.

"Besides, you're one of ours, same as Derek. You don't ignore it when family needs help," The skinwalker added, so quiet it barely registered.

Stiles gaped, completely floored. _Family_ implied a great deal more than the simple friendship he'd assumed with the skinwalker. Family wasn't a word anyone threw around, but especially not someone like Miles, just like Derek and Stiles never had.

"Thanks," He repeated, his voice quiet around the lump in his throat.

"No problem," Miles said, voice gruff. The awkward moment was broken, shattered completely by Cassie bouncing into the room, her smile stretching across her face.

"Got one," She singsonged. "We can pick it up after we get everything else moved."

"Have you packed everything?"

Cassie nodded, smiling widely. Stiles wondered how she could smile when everything else felt so uncertain.

"Let's get the bed in first."

Stiles was left sitting in the living room, told to take it easy 'or else'. Matthias and Miles both moved the frame in and carefully navigated it up the stairs while Cassie shouted directions at them. He felt curiously detached from everything, his entire life and whirl of movement he couldn't keep up with.

It wasn't until he blinked and realized she was standing in front of him that he even noticed she'd come into the room.

"Come on, everyone misses you."

Stiles nodded dumbly, got up and followed her upstairs. He glanced into the unused bedroom. The bed was in one corner, the multitude of bags in another. Idly, Stiles thought about how the paint didn't suit Cassie at all, or even Matthias. The light green would eventually drive them both crazy.

His room was still a mess, and he made another mental note to clean it when he got back. His ribs protested when he pulled his hoodie over his head, his leg didn't agree with how he shoved his feet into his shoes. Not for the first time, he wished for werewolf healing.

As if she sensed the pain that had flared up, her hand found his. Black stood out, veins and roots, before fading away again. Navigating the stairs back down was that much easier for it, and he gave her a grateful smile, eliciting a dazzling one in return. When they got outside, Matthias was already in Cassie's car, and Miles was leaning against his truck, a small frown turning the corners of his lips down.

Stiles opted for Miles' truck, if only to avoid being scrunched into the backseat of Cassie's undersized hybrid.

"Everything alright?" He asked, seeing the frown still pulling at Miles' features.

"Yeah," He said, visibly forcing himself to relax.

"Dude, if it's too much-"

"Don't even," Miles grunted. "It's not that. Was just thinking about something else."

Stiles didn't ask, and Miles didn't offer to explain. They followed Cassie's car, circling Caroline's land before turning down the drive and pulling up to the house. The front door burst open and Marianne's children, Garrett and Elijah spilled out, Annette following closely behind. The two kids were calling out his name, running to the truck.

"Hey guys," He greeted, opening the door. Both were babbling too quickly for him to untangle the words, but the way they clung to him made him realize just how much he'd been missed around the house. It must have bothered them, how he'd disappeared for weeks.

"I'm sorry," Annette groaned. "They've been waiting to see you all day."

"Not a problem," He told her, trying to walk without tripping over either of the children. They were exactly like excited puppies, moving back and forth in front of him, making it impossible to move without bumping into them.

He wondered if anyone had told them about the schism, or if they would even understand enough to care.

"Dad's downstairs, if you want to see him. Mom and Marianne are in the office," Annette said, already following her sister into the house, Miles and Matthias in tow. "Family dinner night, by the way."

At least they'd be fed for the night. He still hadn't managed to convince Cassie into doing the grocery shopping.

"I'll go see your dad," He answered, ruffling both boys hair before walking in and immediately heading for the door in the hall that led to Rick's workroom. It wasn't until he was at said door that he paused, unsure of he was allowed the same freedoms he'd enjoyed before. Choosing to err on the side of caution, he knocked solidly on the heavy wood. A moment later the door opened, Rick staring at him with a concerned expression before it relaxed into something more empathetic.

"You don't have to knock," Rick told him, voice quiet. "Will you be alright with the stairs?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, nodding. He wasn't sure what else to say, following Rick down and closing the door behind him.

"I've been speaking with a friend about the stave you created. He's quite fascinated."

"Awesome?" Stiles tried, sounding unsure. His leg was throbbing unpleasantly, and he settled on one of the stools, leaning back against the workbench. Rick walked over to the table and braced his elbows on it, hands clasped. It was a familiar pose, one he adopted any time he was settling in to talk.

"Just because you're no longer my apprentice doesn't mean you'll lose us, Stiles. I want you to know that."

"I know," Stiles said, unable to stop himself from sounding defensive. Because that was what was happening, wasn't it? Even if it was only the loss of their titles, it implied more, the inherent responsibility they had to one another gone with the pendant. He'd made the decision, and he'd have to suffer the consequences, wouldn't he?

Rick shook his head, as if he could read his thoughts. "Stiles, I'm not going to stop teaching you just because you're not going to succeed me someday. In fact, it would be wrong of me to stop. And I think we both know that now more than ever, you need to continue."

"Don't you need to find another apprentice though?"

"If life has taught me anything, it's that fate will provide when the time is right. But for now, this requires my full attention. I promised to teach you, and I won't break my word just because circumstances have changed."

"It feels like everyone is trying to tell me nothing's changed," Stiles said, rubbing his eyes.

"I won't lie and say it hasn't. We both know better. But you don't have to lose everything because of it."

Stiles took a deep breath and exhaled, nodded in acknowledgment.

"So what first?"

Rick actually looked at a loss. "To be honest, it would be to establish you in your new territory. But circumstances being what they are-" He shrugged. "We're going to have to make it up as we go along. Your studies haven't changed, although there are some things you will have to learn now, as opposed to later."

"Alright,"Stiles said, wondering if there was going to be any part of his life that followed the natural order, or if he'd screwed up his future as well as Derek and Cassie's.

"I've found a few journals that might help you," Rick added in a kind voice. "Some of the laws are dated, but most of it's still sound. There are also the obvious biases, but you'll spot those well enough on your own."

"Thank you." He was saying that a lot lately, didn't like how repetitive it was. Worse, how he lacked an alternative.

"There is one thing I wanted to ask," Rick admitted a few minutes later, after he'd found the books and stacked them on the workbench. "Scott and Caroline spoke again last night to confirm that he was alright staying with you. He mentioned his second arriving."

"No."

Rick looked apologetic. "He's not asking to bring Issac with him. He's worried Issac will follow him. There's still a great deal of distrust there, perhaps understandably."

Understandable or not, Scott by himself was going to be enough of an issue without Derek around. Issac in his home would feel too much like an enemy within his walls. Not happening.

"I can deal with Scott. I can't deal with Issac." Not after everything he'd pulled in Beacon Hills. Maybe once things calmed down, but not before that. Issac had always been and would continue to be Scott's problem.

"I'll speak to him about it. If his beta insists on following despite orders, it might be a good time for Caroline to explain disciplinary actions."

"Scott won't hurt Issac," Stiles murmured. It had been one of Scott's few lines in the sand. Physical punishment, especially in Issac's case, was not an option. As much as he disliked Issac, not even he could condone it.

"There are many ways to punish a beta, which Caroline will explain," Rick offered. "As you'll learn."

"Can't wait," Stiles replied, rolling his eyes.

"That's the spirit," Rick said in a dry voice. "Speaking of, learning-" He opened one of the books and pointed to a page. Stiles skimmed the first paragraph. It was about establishing a new territory. "You'll be busy until dinner."

The information wasn't completely foreign to him. He'd been learning the politics of the supernatural hierarchies as long as he'd been studying with Rick. The process of carving out a new territory was just another facet of it. Despite that, there was still a lot to take in, from establishing boundaries to official declarations and support.

They weren't even halfway through the first chapter, Rick in the middle of a lengthy explanation, when the door shuddered beneath the force of someone banging on it.

"Dinner!" Cassie shouted. Rick chuckled in response, staring fondly at the door, as if he could see his daughter through it.

"Some things never change."

Stiles wasn't about to shit on Rick's good mood by saying that eventually, it would. Instead, he smiled gamely back and stood, his leg stiff from bracing it against the rung of the stool. Rick was already heading for the stairs and he hobbled after him, trying not to drag his foot too much across the concrete floor.

When Cassie saw him, she took his hand and dragged him to the dining room, where everyone, including Miles, already waited.

No one mentioned the schism, or Derek's absence, or the faint bruises beneath his skin. Instead, they talked about one mundane, silly thing after another. It was as close to normal as Stiles had been in a month.

* * *

Miles, true to his word, decided to sleep on the pull out couch that night so he could help Stiles the next morning. By the time he woke, Miles was in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee. Cassie and Matthias were both already gone.

"Cas had a shift this morning, and Matthias is at Caroline's trying to sort out some visa paperwork."

"Okay," Stiles said, limping over to the cabinet to pull down a mug.

"Your leg giving you much trouble?"

"It's mostly stiff, nothing big." He was still avoiding painkillers, too afraid of what they might do, of what he might do because of their affects. The downside to it was the obvious pain, his leg the worst of the many reminders of what had happened in Beacon Hills.

Miles appeared satisfied with the answer, watched him as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

"I figured we'd grab breakfast on the way, then pack up most of the valuable stuff and come back here."

"Sounds good," Stiles agreed. "I need to pick up some boxes."

"We'll swing by the shop. I've got more boxes than I know what to do with."

It was surprising, how easily they both worked side by side. Stiles had always considered Miles more Derek's friend than his own, and even after the declarations of the day before, he couldn't help but feel a little more easy with the skinwalker's help.

Breakfast at the diner was easy, if only because he wasn't expected to speak. Miles didn't seem disturbed by the lack of conversation, and Stiles focused on eating even though he wasn't particularly hungry. The night before Marianne and Caroline both had commented on his weight before shoveling more food onto his plate. Miles was concerned enough, apparently, that he'd probably make him finish his plate if he didn't make a sizable dent in it.

When they finished, Miles agreed to let him pay the bill after several minutes of quibbling over it, drawing the attention of everyone in the diner. The skinwalker was already doing enough. Stiles felt the least he could do was pay for breakfast.

It wasn't until they got back in the truck that Miles broached the subject of Scott's impending visit.

"I know Cas and her boyfriend will be there, but do you need any backup?"

"Why?"

"Derek's not there. One alpha visiting while another is absent is going to cause problems."

"Scott's not going to cause problems," Stiles muttered, glaring at the world outside the window.

"I'm not saying he'd do it intentionally," Miles amended. "It's just instincts. The pack's fractured, so everyone's circling their wagons. You think Cas only had one reason for moving in?"

Shit, he hadn't even thought of it that way. His and Scott's history had been one thing, but piling on instincts he wouldn't, couldn't understand would probably turn his house into a powderkeg. "Fuck."

"Payton and I can stay."

"Are you serious?"

Miles stared ahead, eyes focused on the road. Despite that, Stiles felt uncomfortably like he was being stared down.

"Wolves aren't the only ones with instincts."

Stiles nodded slowly, a wealth of meaning packed into the declaration. Briefly, he wondered how Miles had accepted Derek when Derek had a pack, was, as far as Stiles was aware, the only one at the shop that wasn't one of the neutrals.

Another question to ask someday, maybe.

Miles was closer to his former self when they stopped at the warehouse, telling him to get out and help. It was probably the first time since he'd woken up that someone tried to get him to do some sort of physical labor, and he took a strange, quiet sort of pleasure in it. The others were there when they walked in, past the front office and into the main working area. There was waving and greetings.

The place that had been Derek's bench was empty, a toolbox sitting beneath it.

"I'll throw that in the back of the truck," Miles said, following his line of vision.

"Okay." It wasn't like he was going to use them, and he didn't see the point of moving the toolbox, unless Miles needed the space. For a new employee maybe, someone to replace Derek? Stiles shied away from the thought, tried not to imagine Derek gone so long he had to be replaced.

He and Miles both grabbed thick stacks of collapsed boxes and walked back out, repeating the trip twice before Miles went looking for some packing tape. Payton walked over, a grin stretching his features. He looked like the person Stiles remembered from before their trip to Beacon Hills, a character completely at odds with the serious persona he'd adopted.

"Miles said we're helping you out of your old place."

"Yeah. Seems kind of stupid to pay rent right now."

"No doubt. Look-"

"If you're offering help and or solidarity, Miles already volunteered you," Stiles interrupted, if only to avoid the almost worn out line. Payton threw back his head and laughed, deep, rolling laughs that echoed through the warehouse and drew the attention of the other employees.

"Fair enough," He finally said, wiping his face. "As long as you know, yeah?"

"Yeah man." Maybe he'd been wrong, thinking the crisis had already passed. The continued show of support made it feel like Derek's absence was a crisis, one that everyone felt deserved a gravity he couldn't quite grasp.

When it hit him exactly what the deed meant, how bad it really was, he understood it. A deed was permanent. Caroline's assurances of 'time' were meaningless, because Derek had absolutely no intention of coming back. Ever. With comprehension came the first staggering waves of a panic attack. Ignoring everyone else, he stumbled through the warehouse to outside, attempting to fight off the first disorienting crash of his head spinning. His hand clutched at the braided leather cord around his neck, scrabbling for the rings.

_Seven times one equaled seven. Seven times two equaled fourteen-_

The taste of brine filled his mouth, salt stung his eyes.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. Breathe," Payton's voice commanded. Stiles blinked, looked up at Payton. "Breathe. That's right. It's in the tides. In, out."

"Dude, did you just magic away a panic attack?" Stiles asked, blinking dumbly. The sound of water steadily pulsing, waves foaming out and receding lingered in his ears, like he was holding a conch shell to his ear.

"It's more in your head," Payton said, tapping his skull. "You've got an affinity for water, or else it wouldn't work. You alright? Gave everyone a scare."

"I'm so fucked."

Miles made a noise, announcing his presence behind him. "It's not-It's pretty bad," He agreed. "But not impossible."

"He deeded the house to me. He's not coming back."

Neither Payton nor Miles looked surprised by the revelation, which said more than enough to Stiles, who distinctly remembered not mentioning it to either of them. God _damn_ Cassie.

"As long as he thinks there's a chance you and Cas will choose Caroline, or even McCall, he won't come back," Miles told him, voice going serious. "You know that as well as we do."

"How the fuck am I supposed to convince him otherwise?" Stiles yelled, waving his arms. "It's not like I can just cut ties with everyone!"

"No idea," Payton told him, shrugging. "Just telling you like it is. Derek's trying to do right by the people he cares about. Granted, he chose the worst possible way of going about it, but he's thrown the ball in your court. You're the only one that can decide what to do with it."

"I have," Stiles snarled, incensed in the face of their casual acceptance. Both of them spoke like they knew, and shit, they were right, were thinking the exact same thing he'd been avoiding since he'd seen the deed. "I gave back the stupid pendant, Caroline and Rick know I'm not theirs. Scott knows I won't be his emissary. So what the fuck else can I do?"

"Dunno," Miles admitted. "I know jack shit about packs."

"Fuck," Stiles muttered, looking up to the sky. Avoidance. He didn't want to see the pity written on their faces.

"How about one step at a time, yeah?" Payton suggested. "Go take care of your apartment first. We'll do dinner at your place tonight."

"I need to get groceries," Stiles sighed, feeling the situation being taken completely from his control. There was nothing in him that wanted to try and wrestle it back.

"We can do that after we pack up the more important stuff," Miles huffed. "Come on. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can figure out what's next."

The we was disconcerting enough, but Stiles didn't try to examine it, decided that going with the flow was far, far easier. At least for the moment. Maybe he was in shock. It wouldn't be the first time.

"See you later," Payton told them, already walking away. Stiles ignored the void below him and limped over to Miles' truck. Skinwalkers lacked the magic touch, and Stiles hadn't found the balls to ask what else Miles could do.

"If we get to be too much, tell us to fuck off," Miles said, falling into step beside him.

"I-" Stiles started, then shook his head, his arms hugging his sides to try and will warmth back into them. "It's fine." It had to be, because he didn't know what else to say.

"It's not, but at least you're trying," Miles grunted, getting into the truck. Stiles got in the opposite side and stared ahead.

"Your landlord's probably going to try and screw you on a fee," Miles began conversationally. "Most leases have a change of life clause. You can use your hospitalization as an excuse. Don't mention that you're a homeowner, it'll negate it."

Stiles listened as Miles continued on, going over the random things various landlords had done to him over the years to try and make a few extra bucks, including going into his apartment while he was gone to steal some of his more valuable possessions. By the time they got there, Stiles had a new appreciation for the skinwalker, especially when he heard Miles had been on his own since he was sixteen.

The meeting with his landlord went almost exactly like Miles said it would. Stiles managed to get out of paying any fees by promising to be out by the end of the month. If the apartment was still in good shape, he'd even get his deposit back.

He silently resolved to be out by the end of the week, even if he had to haul the furniture on his own.

* * *

"There's a bed in the office," Stiles muttered, staring at the bed, his bed from the apartment no less, in Derek's office. After his first shift back at Jane's, he'd gone to his apartment to pack and found it completely bare. Even the fridge had been cleaned out, and the bathroom had been pristine and smelled strongly of bleach. The deposit was as good as his.

And it hadn't been Cassie, because they'd both had the same shift. Which left Matthias (unlikely, as he was still haggling with immigration to change his visa), Rick (who was helping Matthias), or Miles and Payton, both of whom were by far the least likely candidates. Or had been. He still had no idea how they'd gotten a key.

"Why is there a bed in the office?"

"I think it means Miles and Payton wanted a place to sleep while Scott's here."

"So we give the visiting alpha the pullout couch?" Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes. It was the only feasible solution. The office was as much Derek's space as the workshop. The only people Stiles would be comfortable letting in it would be Miles and Payton.

It felt like he'd been quietly shuffled into a corner while everyone else decided the proper course of action. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.

"If he doesn't like it, he can stay at mom's. She's the one teaching him, not us."

"Cas," He started, hoping the warning rang clear. Cassie made a frustrated sound and flounced down the hall into her room. The door slammed shut behind her, giving voice to what she'd already clearly expressed more than once.

"Fuck." Stiles wondered if he'd have to send her to her apartment for the duration, if only to preserve his sanity. Better to save that argument for when he had to have it, if he did. (His recent streak of luck told him he probably would.)

The front door opened and slammed shut, booted feet knocking themselves against the mat before thudding as they were pulled off and dropped. Noises filled the house, signs of presence. People sounds, which had been absent until Cassie had moved in. That they were multiplying only served to remind him of how hollow it had felt before, how hollow it still felt.

None of them were Derek noises.

"Took the trash to the dump and got a new can," Miles called out from the kitchen. "Payton's picking up the stuff from the list on the fridge."

It was disturbingly domestic, as if they'd all lived in the same house for years. He was the only one that wasn't falling into step, a broken cog in a routine that must make sense to all of them. Derek's house had always been on the quiet side, but was so much louder now, disconcerting in the extreme.

"I'm taking a nap."

It seemed like the only proper way to cope without resorting to drinking.

* * *

"For fuck's sake," Stiles hissed at the group of people gathered in the living room. "He's not going to piss on the porch and claim the house as his, alright? Go back to-" He waved his hand, desperate to relieve some of the nervous energy jittering beneath his skin. "Whatever it is you were doing."

"We were waiting for him to show up," Cassie shrugged, throwing a leg over Matthias'. Miles and Payton were sitting on the arms of the couch, arms crossed. It was every bad stereotype Stiles had ever feared, all rolled into one mortifying moment.

"He's my brother-"

"And an alpha," Miles reminded him.

"Who I am trying to fix shit with. It's never going to work if we treat him as just a visiting alpha."

"We can't just ignore it," Cassie reminded him, voice sharp. "He's your brother, but he's sure as hell not mine."

"What about Beacon Hills?"

"Oh yes, because being forced to save the asshole that allowed you to be exiled from your own home is a great way to start any relationship," Cassie replied flippantly, rolling her eyes.

Stiles took a deep breath and counted to three, then ten. He was about to try for fifty when he heard a car door slam shut. Shit. Too late to send them all packing now.

"For the love of god, do not try to fuck this up for me."

"Okay," Cassie said. Stiles eyed her warily. Easy agreement never meant anything good. It was just as well she couldn't use wolfsbane. Hopefully she'd take the furniture into consideration.

Stiles opened the door just as Scott started climbing the steps of the porch. He felt the tension rising behind him and resolutely ignored it in favor of offering Scott an awkward smile.

"Hey dude," He said, opting for familiar in the face of an imminent disaster. "How was the drive?"

"Long," Scott replied, almost shy. "Some nice scenery though. I got lost somewhere around Eugene when I pulled off to stretch my legs. I got off on one-twenty six and then ended up on ninety nine all the way to Corvalis before getting back on five."

"Come on in," Stiles said, moving to the side. "Man, how did you get lost? Five's pretty much a straight shot up here."

"Except for finding this place. I passed the drive like, four times."

"We are well hidden," Stiles replied, rushing him past the living room and to the den. "It's sort of a full house here at the moment-"

"No, dude, it's totally fine," Scott said, looking around in obvious curiosity. "Thanks for putting me up while I'm here."

"Not a problem," Stiles lied, badly. Scott paused in his examination of the room to meet his gaze head on, expression serious.

"Look man, if it's-I'd get it, okay? I won't be mad if you and Derek need space."

Stiles gaped. Scott didn't know Derek was gone. He was going to kill Caroline.

"It's not like that," Stiles said slowly, grasping for an explanation. "The others-It's harder for them. Things are weird right now, and-" He waved a hand. "Look, you can drop your stuff and we can go to my workshop to talk."

Scott twitched, eyes burning red. Even Stiles couldn't fail to miss the rumbling growl coming from the living room.

"I'll be right back." He didn't bother with an explanation before fleeing the room, anxiety twisting his stomach into intricate knots. Scott remained planted exactly where he was, which wasn't surprising. When he stalked into the living room, Cassie was glaring at him, unrepentant.

"Stop." He wasn't sure he could manage more than a single syllable without flying into a rage.

"You shouldn't be alone with him," Cassie declared, as though it was only common sense.

"We're not doing this," He ground out from behind his teeth. "I do not need your permission to speak with him. I do not need anyone's permission," He added, pinning down each inhabitant of the room, one by one. "To speak to my own brother. And if anyone is of the opinion that I do, you can kindly get the fuck out of _my_ house."

Cassie looked like he'd slapped her, eyes going wide and mouth going slack.

"I told you it's not that simple," Miles began.

"Where in the rule book does it say I have to choose between my family and my pack?" Stiles demanded, voice growing louder. "We're not at war. We're not even at odds. Scott has an alliance with Caroline, and I'm sure if Derek could pull his head out of his ass, there would be one between them too. I know your instincts are driving you batshit, but this is my family. I have been cornered into choosing before, and I'm not doing it this time. I will fucking pack up and immigrate to Russia if anyone tries to put me in that position again. Am I clear?"

"How can you tell us to just ignore that an alpha is here?" Cassie demanded, jumping to her feet. "Derek wouldn't be remotely okay with this."

"Derek knows exactly what Scott means to me, and he would sit on whatever impulses said otherwise. I'm not asking you to submit to him or hold his fucking hand. You don't even have to like him. But you will not interfere in my relationship with him, and you will afford him the same courtesy you would give any visiting alpha."

"What if he asks you to be his emissary?" Cassie challenged. "What if he wants you back?"

"I won't," Scott said from the doorway. All heads turned to him, and he had the grace to look sheepish at the interruption. "I'm not here to recruit him. I just want to try and fix things with my brother. I know the difference between pack and family. I won't try to steal him."

Cassie stalked over to him, and Stiles prepared himself to get in between them. He'd sustain injuries, no doubt of that, but he was equally sure they'd stop the minute they smelled his blood.

"I don't trust you. Stiles is the most important person in my life, and you've hurt him. I can't trust you. I don't care how hard you try. Every nightmare, every scar. That's on you," She said, voice chilly. "If you hurt him again, I will destroy you."

Scott's eyes remained brown, a remarkable show of restraint. "I understand," He said, quiet and solemn. He didn't offer promises or platitudes, remained silent as Cassie stared him down.

Something obviously shifted, or maybe she was just tired, but she nodded decisively and stalked past him, to the stairs and up to her room. Matthias got up and followed on silent feet, not deigning to add to the conversation. Stiles wondered what they looked like to the beta, who hadn't been present for any of the drama when it had happened. Crazy, probably. Operatic, sophomoric. Leif's pack, like Caroline's, had been a well oiled machine. Perfect. Matthias probably though they were all crazy.

At least no one had died. If nothing else, he could take comfort in that. As long as Cassie would let him, anyway.

"Look. You weren't half bad back in Beacon Hills. But the fight's over," Miles said, not looking the least bit concerned about whether or not he was pissing off an alpha. It had to be a perk of being a neutral. Stiles almost envied it. "Don't fuck up."

The warning was lingering even after Miles left the room, trailing Cassie and Matthias up the stairs.

"Since any more threats would obviously be overboard," Payton sighed, rolling his eyes theatrically. "Welcome to Portland, Alpha McCall. Stiles, there's some coffee ready if you want to grab some and go for a walk with your brother. Perhaps explaining the situation sooner would be better."

"Thanks," Stiles mumbled, face hot.

"Anytime," Payton replied flippantly, already walking out of the room.

Stiles palmed his face tiredly, unsure of what to do now that he'd probably pissed off his sister. "There's no chance you'll forget the last five minutes, is there?"

"Probably not."

"Coffee's in the kitchen," Stiles sighed, leading Scott through the house. All of the noise he'd been trying to get used to was gone, an abrupt silence echoing through the house. It felt emptier than it had when he'd first gotten back from Beacon Hills.

Later, he promised himself. He'd deal with it later. Preferably when Scott was with Caroline, learning how to alpha properly.

Scott accepted the mug of coffee, winced at the first sip in a telling sign of someone that preferred lattes or frappachinos. Stiles pulled out milk and sugar and sat them on the counter before pouring himself a mug. By the time he put the pot back, Scott's coffee was a pale shade of brown and he was putting the milk back in the fridge.

"This way," Stiles said, walking to the back door instead of through the house. The moment he walked outside he realized he'd forgotten his hoodie inside, the cold air seeping into the long sleeved henley he'd donned like a security blanket. Holding his mug closer to him while he waited for Scott to step out and close the door, he looked around the patio, tried to ignore how bleak it felt.

The walk was slightly better, Scott looking around in avid interest, obviously impressed. At any other time Stiles would have felt like bragging, but sitting Scott down for a frank discussion about Derek's absence and keeping the limp out of his gait took all of his concentration. Besides, he wasn't sure how he felt about the house anymore, all the work he'd done on it cheapened by Derek's easy abandonment.

When he got inside his workshop, he immediately sat his mug down and fiddled with the space heater he'd bought when he'd first returned from Norway. The investment had already more than paid for itself, although Derek had complained about the smell.

"Feel free to sit," he suggested. "You'll probably want to."

Scott took one of the stools from under the built in table and perched, coffee still in hand. Steam wafted into the air, flavored heavily with sugar. Stiles took a swallow of his coffee to delay the inevitable. Scott, bless his overwhelming sense of guilt, seemed willing to forgo asking questions in favor of letting Stiles take the lead.

"So. You probably noticed Derek's not here."

"I kind of- Yeah," Scott admitted. "I didn't know whether to say anything or not. It's not because of me, is it?"

Stiles rubbed his forehead, sat his coffee down and tried to settle onto a stool, forced to contort his leg into an angle that had only recently become uncomfortable. "Derek pulled the martyr act and hauled ass before I got back. We're not sure where he is." He didn't say Miles was probably looking for him, despite his request. Knowing where Derek was was entirely different from pursuing it. As long as he personally didn't know, and Cassie wasn't made aware, Miles could look all he wanted.

Scott obviously had questions or comments, but his mouth remained closed. It was a new side of Scott Stiles had never seen before, and he wasn't sure if he could appreciate it when he didn't know if the restraint was a new, natural behavior or because of their circumstances.

"I am his emissary, and Cassie is his beta. But an alpha visiting right now is tense."

"Dude, I told you, you don't have to let me stay. I really do get it-"

"No," Stiles interjected, shaking his head. "I agreed to you staying before Cassie moved in, but it doesn't change anything. I'll deal with her. Just-I'm sorry about that. It's just been a weird few weeks here."

Scott nodded, face a mask of empathy. His eyes, god damn, the puppy eyes really hadn't gone away with age, were soulful deep and filled with sympathy. "You think he's worried about last time?"

"It's the most obvious answer," Stiles agreed, staring down at his hands. "I'm pretty sure he thinks he's doing the right thing."

"I don't blame him," Scott murmured, immediately backpedaling as Stiles directed the full force of his glare on him. "No dude, not like that. I mean, he lost his pack, and only a sociopath wouldn't feel guilt about that. Even though it wasn't his fault, it would mess with him."

The caveat was the only reason Stiles didn't jump down Scott's throat for talking about Derek like he knew him. It was still dangerous, obviously, for them to talk about Derek and the past. Their own would probably be no better, but at least there would be a reason for it.

"But yeah, that's why Cassie is currently looking at everything like a threat. I'm sorry."

Scott was silent for a moment, examining his own hands like the lines and creases would provide answers. "She has every right to distrust me, Stiles. I did hurt you."

"Pretty sure we hurt each other."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have needed to lie if I hadn't driven you away."

Stiles wanted to curl into a ball, skip the conversation and pretend it had already happened. Too bad real life didn't have montages with spiffy background music. "Look. We both messed up, before the sacrifice. After was just-It was a tipping point for both of us. We both had our shit to deal with, and we didn't deal with it that well."

Scott nodded in emphatic agreement, sighing heavily. "I'm sorry I stuck my head up my ass. I was just-I was terrified of becoming Peter or Deucalion."

"Dude, you could try for a hundred years and never get there," Stiles huffed.

Scott gave him a sharp glance. "I hit Issac."

"You-What?"

Scott looked completely ashamed of himself, shoulders hunching up and his chin tucking into his chest. "Right after I became an alpha. It was stupid. So stupid. It was over Allison, of all things. I punched him hard enough he flew into a wall. After that, I was willing to do pretty much anything to keep from repeating it."

Stiles didn't know what to say to the admission, didn't know how to react because of all the things Scott had done that were at odds with his personal code, physically lashing out was the one thing Stiles hadn't thought possible. Especially with Issac.

"My darkness is power," Scott admitted, when Stiles still couldn't find words to express the tangle in his brain. "It's this voice in my head that tells me I need to act a certain way, do certain things. And it always says 'for the safety of the pack', like it would actually excuse it. And I know it wouldn't. It's why I made the pack a democracy, why I tried to just-Cling, I guess."

"So your compulsion really is to become Peter or Deucalion," Stiles stated, voice flat. He wasn't sure what he was feeling anymore. Scott nodded, looking miserable.

"I know it was messed up, but I didn't know what else to do. How was I supposed to tell anyone that a voice in my head was telling me to bite people so I'd have a strong pack? Or to kill Issac because he was a threat to my leadership?"

Stiles didn't say the obvious, knew it lingered between them.

"I used to see your face change," He admitted quietly, staring down at his hands. "And Allison's, the twins too. Sometimes Chris'. It would be this weird corner of my eye sort of thing, only head on. Like a horror movie. You'd look like Peter or Gerard, Allison would remind me of Kate. It was a waking nightmare, just- I could never stop seeing it. Sometimes it wouldn't stop, and I didn't know if I was awake or asleep."

Scott cursed, the words quiet and lost in the hum of the heater.

"I dreamed about all of them, every night I slept. Everything that had been done, what you all might still do."

"I'm sorry I ignored you," Scott said, voice soft and full of guilt. "God, I didn't-Of course I didn't know," He muttered, glaring at his fists. "And the-The scars?"

Stiles took a deep breath. "I didn't want to sleep, so I started abusing my adderall. When it got to the point I was going through my prescription too quickly, I looked up ways to get my adrenaline going. Cutting seemed like the easiest option. When I knew I had to sleep, I would drink to make it a little easier."

Scott looked ready to break down at the blunt admission. Stiles felt curiously hollow, like the past had been pulled out of him and left nothing behind but emptiness.

"I'm-I just need a minute," Scott muttered, getting up so quickly the stool screeched across the concrete floor. He didn't wait for answer or comment, the door slamming shut behind him.

Stiles stared around his workshop, saw the chaos and disorder he'd left behind when pulling everything down from the shelves, sorting through what he might need and ignoring everything else.

It was mindless, almost comforting, to start organizing things. Righting books and boxes, putting order to the shelves and workbench. Lining things up so the corners were even, the spines of books flush in a straight line. Labels in different languages stared back at him, the letters reorganizing themselves into new words and sentences between blinks.

The door opened and closed, Scott bringing in cold, clear air that hurt to breathe.

"I hated you so fucking much," Stiles said, the words wobbling out of his mouth without his permission, a filter removed. "And there's this part of me that still wants to punch the shit out of you."

"I don't know how to fix it," Scott admitted, just as the stool legs rasped along the floor. "Nothing's going to undo it, or take the scars away. I can't give you that time back. And I'm sorry. Even if I say it every day for the rest of my life, it wouldn't be enough."

"Why didn't you tell me about the voice in your head?"

Scott's laugh was sarcastic, self deprecating. "Would you believe me if I told you it was because I wanted to protect you?"

"Considering your long and colorful history of doing really stupid shit to protect people, yeah."

"You always helped, no matter how shitty everything was for you. After the sacrifice, I thought you'd be happy, not having me whining at you about everything. I knew you hated it, but you always let me do it anyway, and out of everyone, you needed the break the most. It had been nonstop for you since the beginning. I knew you had something to deal with, from the nemeton. I was dumb enough to think you didn't need help handling it, since you were the one always handling it for the both of us."

"We both did it, I think," Stiles admitted, still staring at the boxes. "Trying to keep each other safe."

"Your dad said you didn't defend yourself, last year. That you didn't try to tell him the truth about the pack. He really let me have it, and I totally deserved it, but I was too angry at the time to actually listen."

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah dude, he lost it. I've never seen him like that. He roughed up Deaton too, I smelled him in the clinic and Deaton had a huge bruise on his jaw for a couple of weeks. I should have put it together back then. Lydia had to spell it out for me, when she warned me to find someone else to be my emissary."

"Lydia's got a reason to carry a grudge with him."

"Pretty sure we all do, but you two most of all. He really screwed you guys over for me. I'm sorry."

"You can't apologize for other people," Stiles said, turning back to Scott and leaning against the shelves. "Besides, Deaton had his reasons. Shitty ones, granted. But being an emissary comes with a lot of bullshit. He was trying to make the best of a shit hand, like the rest of us."

"He advised me to ignore you even though he knew what was wrong with you," Scott bit out, frustrated. "How can you even try to defend him?"

"I'm not," Stiles said, proud that his voice remained even. "I'm always going to resent that he took away our choice." Which felt like an important distinction, suddenly. _Our choice_. Not just Scott's or his. Both. "But I get why he did it. With my issues with the twins and Allison, I wouldn't have stopped. Would you have gone feral or given in to your darkness? Who knows. His intentions were decent, at least. He was trying to protect you, and I can't completely hate him for that."

Which was a revelation in and of itself, because he'd been so sure he would always hate Deaton, would always consider him the reason for those years of loneliness and loss. Only it had been a group effort, really. No one person could be blamed, and everyone had had their reasons for making the choices they had. Deaton- Whatever else he had done, had been trying to protect Scott.

"Not to mention he figured out how to make me manifest," Stiles added a moment later. "I still don't know how, but I wouldn't have my gift without it. And all this," He said, gesturing around him. "I wouldn't know anything about my grandad, or even the little things about my mom. So maybe it balances out." Maybe, though doubtful. Maybe (hah!) if he repeated it often enough, it might actually sound reasonable. Eventually.

Scott looked adorably confused, an expression hearkening back to younger days. "I thought it just happened naturally."

Stiles shook his head. "Nah, it has to be triggered somehow. Sometimes it can happen in a crisis, but it usually takes a magical stressor of some sort. Peter did it for Lydia, when he bit her. It's why she didn't change."

"People with powers don't?"

"People with gifts choose," Stiles said, settling into the neutral topic. Enough emotional trauma for one day, it seemed. He could deal with that. "We change or our bodies reject the bite, but we don't die like a regular person does if it's rejected. It depends on mindset, apparently. I haven't seen much about it in books, it doesn't happen that often."

"That's-Actually that's really cool. Lydia never mentioned it."

"Because it's not that well known. Lydia didn't know until I found out a few months ago. Most people with gifts that get the bite want it, or think they'll die if it doesn't take, so they hope to become a werewolf. It's pretty much a psychosomatic thing for us."

"So do the powers stay, if someone gets bitten?"

"Not sure. Some of the records got lost during world war two, when nazis occupied Trondheim and the pack moved everything. Amund's tried to piece some together, but it's guesswork. He thinks the wolf spark overtakes the gift, and it becomes recessive or goes dormant completely. Rick and I like debating it when we're bored." Because both of them had a sneaking suspicion that there was a latent gift in Caroline's family, which would explain their uncanny ability to look at a person and know they belonged in some way.

"What do you know about wolves becoming alphas?"

Stiles looked down at his hands, then up at Scott. "I know if you'd killed Peter the first time, you would have become one."

"Seriously?" Scott demanded, voice cracking. "I thought I'd become human."

"Derek lied to get your help. I've never read or heard anything about someone becoming completely human again. Derek just used an old myth to get us to help him."

Scott shook his head, smiling a rueful, bitter smile. "Another time someone wouldn't have had to lie if I'd just pulled my head out of my ass."

It was difficult to argue with that, especially in retrospect.

"A beta can kill an alpha, and can Rise if they push themselves enough. I don't know the exact circumstances, even with you." Though they'd guessed. The sacrifice was a variable that couldn't be entirely ignored. It could have given Scott the extra boost he'd needed, or not. Stiles knew better than to mention it. "Or it can be inherited. The most likely candidates are blood relatives, but it can be other pack members too."

"So if I have kids, they might not become alphas?"

"Probably, but it's hard to tell. Rick says the potentials can be read, if they're there. But that's all they are, potentials. People who can actually see the future are really, really rare." And kept to themselves, for obvious reasons.

"This isn't anything like Deaton's, or even Lydia's old workroom."

The nonsequiter gave Stiles pause. "It's still pretty new. They built it while I was in Norway."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"About Norway?"

"Yeah. I never really thought about leaving Beacon Hills, I guess. Portland was like another country. Norway is sort of unreal."

"I met a huldra," Stiles said, smirking impishly.

"What's a huldra?"

Scott was guffawing, utterly fascinated by the time Stiles got to the part about the tree bark that grew on her back.

* * *

Stiles was enjoying the first day of alone time he'd had since Cassie had moved in. Scott was with Caroline, Payton and Miles were at work, and Cassie and Matthias were staying at her apartment in the city for the night after he'd practically begged for some time to think.

Not that he was going to, because he'd been thinking almost nonstop for weeks, and the break was nice.

Which was why the knock at the front door made him grumble. He'd been intent on a hot shower and a book, something utterly banal and fictitious. Maybe a grilled cheese sandwich and some soup, if he was feeling ambitious.

When he opened the door, Annette and Tim were both there, expressions twin masks of hope.

"Hey," She greeted quietly. "Can we come in?"

Rick's warning echoed from the depths of that hellish conversation weeks before. "Sure."

They shuffled in and followed him to the kitchen, both uncharacteristically stiff and unsure of themselves. Stiles could write it off to the fact that he wasn't pack anymore, except nothing had changed at the house. Family dinners were still the same tangled mess of conversation and laughter, easy touch and acceptance.

"Out with it."

"We both want to court your pack," Annette blurted, looking at her hands with horror, face a vivid red. Stiles assumed she'd had a better, more articulate speech in mind. Given the circumstances, he appreciated the short version more.

"Derek's not here. I can't-"

"Cassie's part of your pack."

Stiles ignored the table and leaned against the counter, trying not to pinch the bridge of his nose like an exasperated parent, even though he felt like one. "We're not operating under the normal rules. I can't say anything one way or another. This whole thing is- Why would you want to join this pack?"

Tim looked almost confused by the question. "Because it feels right."

"How-Nevermind," Stiles groaned. "Look, I can't say yes or no. It's just sort of here. But you know that things aren't-They're hard right now." He had no idea if two more wolves would made it any more or less difficult. Annette and Tim both were good people, if gentle for wolves.

"I know this is the right pack for me," Annette told him, meeting his gaze. "I know-This is the pack I'm supposed to be in."

"And you?" Stiles asked, looking at Tim. "You're doing this for you, right? Not to follow Annette?"

Tim looked offended by the very suggestion, which was a good sign, or would have been under normal circumstances. "Caroline's nice, but I never-" His expression shuttered. "I was only bitten a few years ago. I was part of her pack to learn, before finding one that was right for me. She knew that. I didn't, not until I heard Derek was an alpha. This feels right. I have a lot of respect for you and Derek both. You're-Both of you understand me better. It's hard for the others, they were born wolves, or they made the choice. I didn't. You guys get that, what that can do."

Stiles nodded slowly. That was a common theme in packs. Almost everyone chose or was born a wolf. Tim, like Scott, was a rare exception. "Alright. Hail and welcome, and all that."

"You sound so enthused," Annette muttered sourly.

"I don't know what we're doing," Stiles admitted. "Without Derek here, everything is sort of in the air."

"We'll figure it out," Tim said, repeating what a handful of other people kept repeating. Stiles was getting sick of it.

"Alright."

"On that note, you want to go grab some dinner? Annette's been too nervous to eat all day, and I can hear her stomach."

"Sure," Stiles said, giving up on his shower and novel entirely.

* * *

"Any idea when you're coming back?" Stiles asked, watching Scott toss his bag into his backseat.

"The weekend after next," Scott said, looking tired. He'd been with Caroline and Rick for most of his stay, all consideration of talks and reconnecting lost to the alpha lessons Scott was undergoing. Given Scott's haggard, weary expression, it wasn't difficult to tell Caroline hadn't been taking it easy on him.

"Right, full moon." Stiles had no idea what his pack would be doing that night. He wouldn't be going to the ve, wouldn't be running with the pack or passing out in the barn. If nothing else, his leg wouldn't let him. He hadn't discussed the particulars with Caroline or Rick, didn't know where they were allowed to be, if anything would change.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to talk more."

"There's time," Stiles shrugged. At least they had that.

"Rick's helping build a list of candidates to help me back home. Maybe once I have someone in place I won't make everyone so tense."

"Don't rush it," Stiles cautioned. "It's important to figure out the right person, okay?"

"Yeah," Scott agreed slowly. "I-Christ. I just really miss you."

"I've missed you too man. But we'll figure it out, okay?" Somehow. "Give dad and Melissa a hug for me."

"Sure thing."

For a moment it looked like Scott was going to get into his car and drive away, the awkwardness still between them, a wall of unspoken things neither of them could begin to articulate. But he stopped at the last moment, spun on his heel and threw his arms around Stiles' middle, squeezing gently. "See you later bro."

"Shoot me a text when you get home," Stiles returned, hugging Scott back. They broke apart quickly, offering awkward smiles to one another. Stiles watched Scott get into his car and turn in the driveway, waved as he disappeared down the road.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me."

Miles offered a lazy smirk. "Did you really see any other outcome to this?"

"I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore," Stiles muttered, glaring at the bags. "Where the hell am I supposed to put them?"

"They're willing to crash in the living room for now."

"They can't do that indefinitely!" Stiles squawked, flailing.

"You could move into Derek's room."

"I-" Stiles stopped, glared at Miles. He'd been crashing in Derek's room more often than not, the space a (perhaps oddly) neutral place, the only one where he could sleep without constantly feeling Derek's absence. "Fine. Not like I have a choice anyway."

Miles' expression sobered. "There's always a choice. If this is too much, say it. You're allowed to put your foot down. This is your house, remember? Packs don't have to live together."

"But it's for the best right now, isn't it?" Stiles asked, feeling like the mean old man screaming at children. His lawn, seriously. Werewolves were going to be the end of him. "With Derek gone, they need the proximity. I can't-If they need that, I can't really tell them no."

Miles looked duly impressed, which was strange on a good day. Stiles wouldn't qualify the day as a 'good day'. The bags still resting in random and odd places in the house were testament to his control.

"You're not leaving either, are you?" Stiles asked, arching a brow. Sarcasm was his only defense in the face of a hysterical breakdown.

"Thought you'd figured that out by now."

"I'm a little slow on the uptake." Five new roommates. Six, probably. Chances were that Payton wasn't leaving either. Stiles resolved to learn more about skinwalkers and Minchians.

"At least you get there eventually."

(They all spent the full moon at the house, the kitchen a tangle of people sounds and the scents of cooking food. Instead of running, they settled down to watch cheesy horror flicks about mummies. Stiles didn't know what it said about them that they all howled, an echo to the howling in the distance.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *edit* The coda chapter is finished and posted. 
> 
> In Oregon, you can quitclaim a house without the recipient present. I wasn't able to find much on gift deeding, so I'm operating under that logic because fiction. 
> 
> In norse mythology, urðr and örlög are the substance and force that make up a person's past, present, and future. Fate is kind of a tricky concept, with nothing (not even the past) being set in stone. Skuld (future) can be translated to 'debt'. A good (and free) book on it is The Well and the Tree by Paul C Bauschatz. 
> 
> The stave mentioned is actually from [here](http://www.galdrasyning.is/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=336%3Ahagall-hinn-minni&catid=18&Itemid=60&lang=en)
> 
> Also, I've been on painkillers before. I try to avoid them because oh god, the bubble head sensation and the nausea are awful. So is the cotton headed feeling that lingers for days. Experiences which obviously fed into this.


	2. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. Life things happened.  
> Also, so much Scott and Stiles interaction. This chapter is mostly about them because I do love them as brothers and it needed to happen.  
> 

"Oh my god," Stiles huffed. "At this rate we'll need to buy another hot water heater and dig a second well." He was beginning to regret allowing everyone to move in. Possibly a few days past _beginning_. It was still disconcerting how his house had turned into Caroline's, how it was never empty and rarely quiet. Morning rituals were a war of attrition, draining his dwindling supply of patience. Two weeks had effectively quashed most of the goodwill he'd possessed when everyone had first moved in. Now it was just constant _everything_ , the house never actually winding down and turning off.

"It's not my fault the women and _Payton_ insist on using all the hot water," Tim grumbled, glaring at the mug of coffee in his hand. "I have no idea why I drink this anymore. I can't even get a caffeine rush," He added, voice pitching in a whine.

"Human habits die hard," Stiles replied absently, halfway in the fridge as he looked for the carton of eggs. "Someone needs to do a grocery run."

"Not it," Tim announced.

"Not it," Stiles called out. He heard Miles shouting from his room upstairs, Payton quickly adding his own loud declaration. Cassie and Annette followed.

"Matthias it is," Tim said, raising his mug in salute.

"He's down in San Francisco at the consulate figuring out some paperwork. He left this morning with Rick. Immigration is apparently something emissaries know about." Another revelation, another area of study he'd have to navigate eventually. That Rick apparently had a 'friend' at the consulate was encouraging. That it was bad enough they had to go to the consulate, not so much.

"I didn't know it was that bad," Tim said, casting a quick glance upstairs, as if he could _see_ Cassie listening in.

"He bribed his way through some of the visa paperwork to get here more quickly," Stiles admitted, closing the door to the fridge and giving breakfast up as a lost cause. The Matthias situation had Cassie stressing, the possibility of him being deported setting her understandably on edge. It hadn't been an issue until he'd applied to immigrate, a well meaning but pain in the ass immigration employee catching the discrepancies. The notice to appear had been a shock, and the immigration judge hadn't been lenient because 'my girlfriend's best friend was in a coma'. "So a few things are out of order. Rick's hoping to smooth things over before he gets shipped back."

"He could still come back though, right?"

"Yeah, but it would take time." And he doubted anyone would be able to predict what could happen in the interim. Cassie's control was steadily fraying, Matthias only a stopgap for her alpha. Unlike Tim and Annette finding something solid in one another, she wasn't finding as much solace in Matthias as she could. Stiles chose not to examine whether it was because of Matthias' precarious status with the states, or because they didn't have the same solid history between them that Annette and Tim had cultivated.

Tim nodded, empathetic. "If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"Thanks."

"I've got the next couple of days off. I was going to tie things up with my apartment."

"The attic should still have some space." And would hopefully hold, considering all of the stuff that had been moved into it over the course of the past few weeks. Miles and Payton didn't own much, although what they did own was solid hardwood furniture. Added to the things from his apartment and the odds and ends Cassie and Annette had brought, the space was filling up. Much more and the ceiling would cave in, and they'd all be sleeping in the living room and the den.

The pack needed proximity, needed the consistent contact. It had become an hourly mantra.

"Thanks," Tim murmured. "I'll go with Annette and Cass and make sure they don't buy just red meat and ice cream."

"Good luck," Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes. His phone started ringing, I Fought the Law echoing through the kitchen and making Tim laugh.

"Your dad?"

"Yeah, let me get this," He said, pulling the phone off of the charger and accepting the call. He was out the back door and on the deck when he offered his dad a quiet greeting.

"Hey son. I need to ask a favor."

"Shoot."

"I need you to come down here for a couple of days."

"Not possible."

"Stiles-"

"Dad, if you hadn't heard, I'm currently trying to keep my house from exploding. I've got four werewolves, Miles and Payton living with me, and no alpha in sight. One of said werewolves might be getting deported. Bathroom time in the morning keeps devolving into near bloodshed. I just got back to work. There literally could not be a worse time."

"Scott left Allison and Issac."

"What?" Stiles shouted, realized his error when something slammed in the house and his dad let out a pained hiss. "Dad, what the hell?"

"He needs someone right now."

"Dad, he needs-" His pack, which he'd just broken up with. Which was why sleeping with people in your pack was such a stellar idea. Not for the first time he wondered how werewolves even managed to date without the entire thing turning into some sort of Shakespearean tragedy. "Did they break up romantically or as a pack?"

"Romantically, although I'm not sure what'll happen with the pack now that they're not dating. Just-He needs his brother right now."

Stiles rubbed his forehead, tried not to pull at his hair. "Let me call you back."

"Thanks."

As if he'd already agreed. _Damn it._

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and walked back into the house, the wall of warm air immediately banishing the cold that had seeped into his skin. The entire house seemed to be packed into the kitchen.

"You all heard that, didn't you?" He asked, going for deadpan because the only other option would result in the need for new cabinetry.

"Hard not to."

"Privacy is a thing."

"Not when it involves the pack," Cassie reminded him in a sharp voice.

"This isn't pack business."

"How is you going to Beacon Hills not pack business?" She bit out, as though he'd declared every intention to go. Her attitude was making him want to, if only to prove he could.

"Give him a chance," Miles commanded, voice just as sharp. "He's got family there, and family issues. If his family needs him, that's not a pack debate. We'll survive just fine for a few days. The moon's passed and we're in the middle of Caroline's territory, so there's no threat that won't get her attention first. If you want to go," The skinwalker added, looking to him. "Go. The house will still be standing when you get back."

That the permission felt relieving was chaffing, scraping against his temper.

"Not without a chaperone," Cassie challenged.

"No," Stiles snapped, desperate to end the argument before it began. "I'm not taking a chaperone." The demand itself was enough to decide him. He was more than tired of being treated with kidgloves, and he was an emissary, however screwed up the situation was. Better for them to realize that he wouldn't allow himself to be managed just because it made them feel better. "Miles, you're in charge while I'm gone. If anyone tries to follow me, sit on them."

"Got it," Miles said, saluting. Stiles ignored how serious the skinwalker looked. His life was obviously a cosmic joke.

"You can't just leave," Cassie protested.

Stiles pointed at the door. "Everyone but Cass, out. Now."

The room cleared with an efficiency that their morning routines lacked. Stiles thought about calling attention to the fact and decided against it, if only because he knew he'd sound angry instead of just sarcastic. God only knew how they'd take it, and the last thing he wanted to turn into was a petty tyrant in his own home.

"Cass, we can't keep doing this. You've got to accept that Scott is a part of my family, just like you. And you have to make peace with the fact that I will leave occasionally. I _am_ coming back. I am _not_ abandoning you. But you can't keep me in sight twenty four seven."

"You almost died there," She countered, face flushing in the splotchy way that told him she was about to start crying. Stiles shook it off. If he didn't stop the pattern now, he probably never would.

"Peter's dead. I'm just going back to help Scott through this."

"What about helping _your_ pack?"

"That's the point," Stiles barked, angry at the obvious dig. "There is a pack here. That's not exactly a luxury he has right now." And you're falling deeper and deeper into Matthias, away from me, he added silently. He couldn't help any of them, but he could help Scott.

"He hurt you and you keep acting like it's fine."

"And you're acting like you don't want me to have anyone but the pack. Is that it? Will it actually make you feel better if I disown him? What about my dad? Do I need to burn that bridge too?"

"That's not fair."

"Bullshit. My dad and I had just as many problems to work out. Scott is my brother. I'm going to help him. Don't make me choose. I told you I'm not doing it this time."

He didn't wait for an answer, stalked out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the room he'd taken over. It still didn't feel like 'his' room, probably never would. Just like the house still didn't feel like his house.

Maybe he and Scott could become whiny tween girls and eat ice cream while they sobbed over their respective drama. Or there was whiskey. That actually sounded perfect. He even had a few bottles of Caroline's wolfsbane elderberry wine.

That decided, he pulled his duffel from under the bed and began throwing clothes in it without looking at what he was packing. Because he was paranoid, he packed the knife he kept in the nightstand and then threw in a few pairs of socks because socks, right? He needed socks.

Derek's old leather jacket, which had been in the very back of the closet and found only when Stiles had been trying to make room for his own things, slid on easier than his hoodie. Even if everyone knew, even though it was obvious why he chose to wear it instead of his hoodie, he liked to pretend it was because of the dull ache in his side. The pack hadn't commented, had been gracious enough to let it go. Small mercies were pretty much all he had, and he was learning that existence was all about silver linings.

He stopped in the kitchen to pull out two bottles of wine and the bottle of whiskey, then decided to add a few bottles of beer to it. His dad and Melissa would appreciate it. God only knew what had been going on at their house for the past few days.

Cassie's car was gone by the time he got outside. Payton was leaning against the porch, glaring at the empty space.

"Don't worry, she did it to get out of grocery duty," Stiles said, opening the door to his jeep.

"She needs to look at the bigger picture," Payton replied thoughtfully. "We can't afford for her to keep tearing off every time she doesn't agree with you."

"Just take care of her while I'm gone. Matthias won't be back until tomorrow or the day after. Depends on how everything goes."

"About that," Payton started. Stiles stopped short of jumping into his jeep and waited expectantly. "Nevermind," Payton said, shaking his head. "We'll talk about it when you get back."

"You sure?"

"It can wait. Go deal with your brother. Give me a call when you get there."

"Will do," Stiles promised, slipping into the jeep and slamming the door shut. Payton watched him leave, offering a wave right before Stiles rounded the curve and the shifter disappeared entirely. When he hit the main road, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called his dad confirming that he was on his way.

The duration of the drive felt longer than it had before, time crawling by on his dashboard. More than once he found himself almost pulling off at an exit to turn around, or reaching for his phone to call Cassie to apologize, or Miles to check up on everything at the house. Like clockwork, he found himself gravitating back to the argument and second guessing his decision, wondering if he'd left to help Scott or to escape the house.

When he crossed the state line, he finally gave in to the demands of his stomach and stopped at a generic fast food chain to eat, making up for his missed breakfast. He called Jane and told her something pack related had come up. Jane, gods bless her overly understanding heart, told him to take his time.

The closer he got to Beacon Hills, the less he reached for his phone until he couldn't stop thinking about Scott and Allison, Scott and Issac. The wedding came back to mind, a good day that had turned into the nightmare flashback from hell before shifting into a great weekend on the coast. With Derek. He'd been no better than Scott, his entire life saturated with Derek's presence until it was difficult to find something not connected to him. And now he and Scott were in damnably similar boats, sitting on opposite ends of the spectrum.

It was just getting dark when he pulled into a grocery store parking lot. If nothing else, he could provide his dad and Melissa with some dinner while he and Scott did-Whatever. He wasn't sure what they were going to do, or if Scott was going to be there at all. Or worse, if Scott had no idea he was coming and just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

Being left alone sounded like a great option, if only because he'd all but forgotten what being alone felt like since the pack had moved in.

The wind had picked up, the sign of a storm moving inland from the coast. It cut through him, pushed at his door as he got out, making it all the easier to slam shut. Stew sounded like a viable idea, but it would take too long to cook. Mentally flipping through the recipes he'd memorized, he strolled in, waved casually to the same clerk that had been working behind the register since he'd been fifteen and grabbed a basket.

He grabbed ingredients without really seeing them, dropping them into the basket carelessly. It wasn't until he hit the freezer section that he heard it, his entire body jerking in response.

"Stilinski?"

Stiles cursed every god, fate, and threw in dwarves for good measure. It was his luck that his coach would remember his name years after graduation.

"Hey coach," He greeted, putting as little enthusiasm into the sound as possible.

"I'd heard you left as soon as you were out of the hospital."

Jesus christ, did everyone know he'd been in town and hospitalized? He couldn't even remember the lie they'd used to explain his injuries. "Came back to visit."

"Saw McCall on the field after school, shooting goals. Those were the days. Still haven't had a team as good as yours since you guys graduated. Lahey and those twins sure knew how to play offense."

That was-Actually decent information. Even if it had memories of _then_ and _them_ riding it's coattails.

"I'll swing by and see if he's still there. Thanks."

"Sure thing," Finstock said, already beginning to regain that particularly glazed look that was still a hallmark of Stiles' highschool years. Stiles nodded and quickly strode away, not caring whether he'd gotten everything he needed. The last thing he wanted to hear was Finstock going on one tirade or another.

The clerk looked like he wanted to say something but didn't, offering nothing more than the standard 'have a good night' before he handed off the bags. Stiles chaffed under the almost hesitant look the man was giving him, turning away and walking out in long, quick strides. It occurred to him that he might have gotten eggs. It didn't occur until after he'd slung the bag in the passenger seat. Cringing at the thought of eggs seeping onto everything, he tilted the paper bags toward him and breathed a sigh of relief.

Minor crisis averted, he started the car and pulled onto the road, instinctively heading for the high school. The streets were quiet, even for a weekday evening. It felt-Off. Like it was still stuck in the days were Issac and Allison had been officially missing and their house had burned. Tense, maybe. Waiting for something awful to happen again.

When he parked just off the field, he saw Scott going physics defying acrobatics as he shot goals, showing off for people that weren't there. It was worse than anything he had done in high school, his body contorting at painful looking angles.

"Hey!" Stiles called out, slamming his door for extra effect. Scott continued, oblivious.

When the wind picked up and blew past him Scott stopped, stumbling back a step before bracing himself and turning to look at him. Stiles saw him tug at cord and pull earbuds out and slinging them around his neck.

"Hey," He greeted, strolling onto the green. "Dad gave me a call."

Scott looked guilty, for all that he hadn't done anything. "I told him I was fine."

"Yeah," Stiles said, scratching the back of his head. "But it's dad. Besides, I needed to get out of the house anyway. Sick of fighting everyone for hot water."

Scott looked pathetic. It was a stroll down memory lane to the first break up with Allison, the only change being how Scott had aged. A sharper jawline, a more defined chin. The same sad eyes though. That hadn't changed at all.

"You walked here?"

"Needed to get out some energy."

"Come on. I've got some groceries in the car for dinner."

"Sure, let me grab my bag."

It was awkward, how they were avoiding the obvious. Stilted in a way it hadn't been before. Stiles wasn't sure what he was allowed to say, felt more conscious of his own feelings about Issac and Allison than ever. Worse, he didn't know what to say because his dad had made it sound like Scott had broken up with them. And what did you say to someone miserable even though they'd initiated the break? Worse, when they were aware of how little you cared for the other people?

"Stupid werewolves and your immunity to cold," Stiles muttered, trying for sarcasm. Scott offered a weak smile in return as he packed up and slung his bag over his shoulder.

"How'd you know where to find me?"

"Finstock was at the store. He mentioned you, and then how much he misses our team. The usual."

"Did he shout at Greenberg?"

"Nah, but he was about to, I think."

Scott made an amused sound, lost in the sound of the doors opening. He slung his bag into the back with the ease of memory, one Stiles didn't think he'd have. Scott seemed equally caught off guard by the motion, pausing at the door and giving him an uncertain look.

"Get in dude. And don't sit on the groceries. I don't want werewolf funk getting into the meat."

"It's wrapped," Scott said, the tension gone as he picked up the bags and sat, holding them in his lap and shutting the door.

Scott reached forward, fiddled with the radio as Stiles drove, flipping through mostly static.

"Has something happened in town?"

"Why? You feel anything?"

"It's just quiet. Kind of tense, I guess."

"I think people are still settling after the fire. It reminded them of the Hale fire. All the people coming and going had them talking for awhile too. Reminded them of when the hunters were coming through."

And the local body count had skyrocketed.

"How's the search going?"

"I've got another interview set up for tomorrow," Scott sighed, slumping in his seat. "The past ones-" He stopped, shook his head. "They haven't been going well."

Which was surprising, because Rick wouldn't send people he didn't think capable and compatible with Scott. "Sticks up their asses?"

"I let Allison and Issac sit in on them," Scott muttered, looking angry at just the mention of the pair's names, even though he'd been the one to bring them up. Stiles sort of wished he hadn't; at least not in the car. "Issac thinks we should keep Deaton, and Allison refuses to trust anyone Rick recommends."

"They still think we planned it?" Stiles muttered, exasperated. "Even after Derek ran?"

Scott shrugged. "I didn't tell them."

"You-" Stiles paused and glanced over at his brother, saw the tense set of Scott's shoulders, the tic in his jaw. "Why?"

Scott turned to look at him, giving him the 'you are an idiot' look. Stiles wasn't used to getting that look from Scott. "It's none of their business what's going on with your pack."

Stiles forced himself to keep looking at the road, mostly because he was sure he'd crash otherwise. "Thanks."

"No problem."

It most definitely was. Scott hiding things from his partners, however ex they might be for however long, couldn't have been easy. Worse, he'd hidden something from his pack, a move directly at odds with his morals and his instincts.

Stiles chose not to mention any of that.

He pulled into Melissa's driveway, saw Melissa's car but not his dad's, which meant he was probably pulling a late shift. Scott wordlessly carried his groceries, and Stiles grabbed his duffel and the bags of bottles from the back seat and followed his brother up the drive and into the house.

"Hey mom. Stiles is here."

"I come bearing booze and groceries," Stiles added, dropping his duffel near the door and shifting the other bags in his arms, making the glass clink.

Melissa appeared in the foyer, arms hugging her stomach. Despite her posture, she was smiling. "Hey kids. I ordered a few pizzas. Stiles, your dad's shift ends at two."

"I can cook tomorrow night then," Stiles shrugged, walking past her and to the kitchen. "Booze is still up for grabs though. Some of Caroline's ale, just don't touch the wine bottles. They're for wolves," He threw over his shoulder.

"She mentioned brewing as a hobby," Scott said, already putting groceries away. "Something about the math and patience thing. I couldn't really wrap my head around it."

"It's her form of meditation, keeps her from going postal when the local vamps start pissing her off," Stiles snorted. "She makes wolf and human brews. Probably better than whatever it was Lydia made."

"Wouldn't be hard," Scott snorted, smirking. "That stuff smelled like paint thinner and tasted worse. Just don't tell her."

"I like my tongue in my mouth, thanks," Stiles replied, smiling nonetheless. "I talked to her a few days ago. She's doing good."

"Yeah, I gave her a call last week."

That was new and-Unexpected. Stiles scolded himself for forgetting that Lydia had been Scott's unofficial emissary for years. Of course there would be something to salvage, something worth salvaging.

"I haven't had any of Caroline's moonshine," Melissa announced as she walked in. Stiles had the feeling she was intentionally trying to give him warning of her arrival. That was new. "I figured I'd grab a bottle and head upstairs. Cash is on the coffee table."

"I can get it-" Stiles began.

"Cash is on the table," Melissa repeated, grabbing one of the clear, unlabeled bottles. She gave a quick wave before disappearing again, vacating the room with no subtlety whatsoever.

Scott was opening a bottle of the elderberry wine. The cork came out and he gave an appreciative sniff. "Smells better."

"Just be careful," Stiles cautioned as Scott sat the bottle back down and started rummaging through the cupboards. "It's probably stronger than what Lydia made."

"I just think it's hilarious I'm drinking wine like some girl while you have a beer," Scott sighed, even though Stiles was sure it didn't actually matter to him.

"I'll grab mead next time," Stiles retorted, using his key to pop the cap off the beer. "And for the record, I also have whiskey. I just left it in the car."

"Then why'd you bring it?"

There was a question, one he wasn't sure how to answer without touching on painful topics. Such as his dad's worrying tendency to drink too much, or how he'd used it as a sleep aid. "So."

Scott poured himself a glass of wine, stopping when the glass was entirely too close to full and corking the bottle. "I have an emissary interview tomorrow, so nothing too crazy."

"One glass of wine or bottle of beer does not a crazy night make," Stiles countered, raising his beer and watching his brother tap the close to spilling glass against the bottle. The vibrations echoed into his fingers, made him realize he'd never actually had a drink with Scott, aside from their one ill advised venture in the woods.

"Dude, you're the one that got thrown out of a bar. And that one picture of you and Cass and Derek all piggybacking? How wasted were you?"

Stiles didn't flinch at the sound of Derek's name, but it was a near thing. "It was my twenty first, and I don't remember," He shrugged. "I'm pretty sure Cass planned it that way. And it took a lot of booze."

Scott pulled a chair out and sat, twirled the wineglass on it's base. His movements were so smooth the wine barely rippled. Stiles followed suit, felt like he was facing a mine field. Now that they both had their respective drinks, it felt like one of them should be talking. Damned if he had any idea where to start.

"What's going to happen to Deaton anyway?" Deaton seemed a safer topic than Allison and Issac.

"He's asked if he can remain in the territory," Scott muttered, glaring down into his glass. "And he's declared himself neutral."

"If he's in the territory and neutral, he still owes you. Tithe laws. It's not a bad thing to have backup or someone to patch you up when your emissary or mom aren't available," Stiles pointed out. When Scott glared at him, Stiles raised his hands in a placating gesture, palms out. "It's advice, dude. You don't have to take it."

"I can't trust him."

"Correction. You couldn't trust him. Not with advice. I'm talking about literal patch up jobs or a bolt hole. He has his house behind enough wards a magical atom bomb probably wouldn't do much damage. Talk to Caroline about it, or Miles. Actually, scratch that. Don't ask Miles. He's huge on not screwing with declared neutrals." And he sort of hated Scott. "But Caroline can give you the gist of tithing."

Scott nodded, though he didn't look too enthused about the idea. Stiles wrote it off as something Scott would have to decide. Hopefully his future emissary would know enough to help him with it.

"How are things at the house?"

"Crowded," Stiles muttered. "Loud, distracting." Just not distracting enough.

"I kind of envy you, your pack living together like that."

"Dad said you left them," Stiles said after a pause, hoping he wasn't stepping on a claymore.

"I did," Scott sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It was just too much, and it wasn't fair of me, what I was doing to them."

"Power imbalance?" Stiles guessed.

"Issac and Allison were both my subordinates, which we never worried about because they never felt that way, and I never treated them that way," Scott admitted, each word coming out slowly. Practiced.

"So what changed?"

"A lot. I have to start taking my responsibility seriously. I can't act like a kid anymore."

Stiles understood the distinction even though he couldn't entirely comprehend it. As an emissary, he was an authority figure in the pack, but he had no real power over the betas and humans. An alpha did.

"I'm sorry."

The doorbell chimed, cutting off whatever answer Scott was going to give, if he was going to give one at all. Stiles took the time to absorb the information, roll it around in his head. Scott was actually acting as an alpha, which would put him at odds with Allison and Issac, at least if 'taking responsibility' meant ending the supposed democracy the pack had been built on.

Stiles couldn't help but wonder how Scott was coping with it when his tie was power, how he was reconciling those things. If he was intentionally cutting himself off from his pack by breaking up with them, it was an issue that would need to be addressed. Later, though, after the initial pain had faded. Much later. Preferably by another alpha that didn't have longstanding grudges against the people involved.

Scott returned, three boxes of pizza in hand.

"I'm going to make mom a plate," Scott murmured, speaking softly. Stiles watched, took a slice of spinach pizza and ate without bothering to get a plate or napkin. Scott left and returned, looking strangely morose. Stiles checked the glass of wine and knew his brother hadn't consumed enough for it to be the alcohol getting to him.

Then again, Scott had never had the same issue expressing hurt that he had.

"I feel really dumb," Scott admitted, sitting back down. "I'm acting like a sixteen year old again when you-" He stopped abruptly, giving Stiles a wary glance. "Sorry."

Oh.

That hadn't actually occurred to him, that Scott would feel guilty.

"My situation doesn't invalidate yours." The distraction didn't exactly hurt.

"Still-"

"Dude you've been with them for how long now? And Allison on and off for years. Christ, it's okay to feel sad or angry or whatever over it. Don't apologize for having problems. Everyone does."

Scott offered a weary smile. "Yeah, but it was me making mine bigger than yours that screwed us up."

"Scott, we can't both talk at the same time." And he'd need more to drink before reaching that level of emotional honesty with himself, much less anyone else. "So feel free to talk, not talk, mope, whatever. Just don't feel guilty about being broken up over it. You're allowed."

The silence was broken by the sounds of chewing, the scrape of cardboard against cardboard. Stiles ate another slice of pizza before opening a second beer. Scott drained his glass and poured another, immediately drinking from it.

"Caroline makes good wine."

"She saves the elderberries for the wolf wine since it masks the taste of the wolfsbane. She's pretty good at brewing in general though. I don't really know how she manages to keep up with it."

"I really miss them. Like, I know this is the right thing to do, but it still sucks," Scott admitted out of nowhere.

"Are you splitting just because of the power issue?" Because it was manageable, not that he wanted to tell his brother that. But he would, if he needed to. Caroline and Rick managed, and he knew other packs had alpha/beta pairings.

Scott shook his head, looking flush. "I wasn't with them for the right reasons. Just-I was selfish, you know? They deserve better than what I was doing."

Stiles couldn't imagine Scott being with anyone for any reason but true love, even if it wasn't typical. "There are a lot of reasons to be with people, Scott."

"I was scared they'd leave."

Stiles straightened in his chair, the statement setting off warning bells. It certainly didn't sound like the Scott he knew, but he was uncomfortably aware of how much they'd both changed, the years between them reasserting themselves at the admission. "Like, the pack?"

Scott looked miserable, staring into his glass instead of meeting Stiles' gaze. "It was really messed up of me. But at the wedding, everyone was so happy. They all had someone. And I was really scared, you know? You were with that one girl, and back then I thought you'd just drifted. I was scared the others would do it too. The whole thing with Issac was just-" Scott shook his head. "I was lonely, and afraid. What I did was really screwed up. Even after, I mean. I lived with them, we were in a relationship. But I-I thought if we were together, they wouldn't leave."

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, at a total loss. "You were with them because you were afraid they'd leave you behind?"

"Yeah."

Stiles had no clue what to say, knew quips and sarcasm wouldn't be welcome. If anything, Scott had just admitted something huge, and it deserved more than anything he had to offer offhand.

"If that was why you were with them," He started slowly. "Then it was the right thing, breaking it off."

"Still sucks."

"Amen," Stiles muttered, taking another sip of his beer. There was no sense of triumph or even pride that Scott had finally realized how detrimental the relationship was to his well being. There was no overwhelming urge to say 'I told you so', like there might have been at some other point, under different circumstances. Just-Resignation maybe. Like they'd both given in to some force that had been pushing at them for years. Or maybe they were actually growing up, and growing up came with a sense of weariness and regret.

"I'm a really bad alpha. I'm pretty sure I've been worse than Derek the first time he was an alpha."

"I don't know," Stiles said, thinking back to those days again. It was difficult to avoid them. "I think it was pretty much the same thing. Neither of you wanted to be alone. Derek made betas, you-" Stiles paused, not entirely sure how to phrase what his brother had done.

"I moved on Issac and helped him cheat, then carried on a relationship based on a lie."

"You love them though, or you wouldn't be so torn up about it. So there's that," He tried.

"It was still wrong."

"Not saying it wasn't. Look, remember when I left after the whole magic thing came out? The Christmas that wasn't?"

Scott flinched at the mention, but nodded dully.

"I didn't go back to Portland immediately. I went to Waldport. I-Dude, I fucked up back then, in a lot of ways. I cared about the pack, even then, right? But I used them as a stopgap for awhile. A place to wait out your -" Stiles waved a hand, because he still didn't have a way to describe the clusterfuck he and Scott had been, still sort of were. "I thought you'd realize what a mistake you were making, and you'd get rid of them, and tell me to come back. And Derek admitted the reason he let me stay was because he felt guilty. At least at first, anyway. It was really-" Stiles couldn't even think of a word to encompass what they'd started out as. "Unhealthy, but it didn't mean we didn't care about each other, or even Cass and Caroline and the pack. It wasn't right, not at first. But it didn't invalidate that we were different, or had something. Maybe not what we thought, but something, you know?"

"I don't, it's not like that though," Scott muttered, actually looking worse for Stiles' admission. "I care about them, but not-I'm not in love with them," He added. "And now- I've always felt so different from them, like we're seeing two different colors but calling it the same thing."

Stiles fiddled with his bottle, unsure of what to say. Attempting to comfort Scott wouldn't work, at least not for awhile. Not to mention the strange, sixteen year old part of his brain that vehemently denied a world where Scott used a relationship to cover for his insecurities.

"Are you sure you're not in love with either of them?"

"Yes."

"Then you did the right thing."

Scott looked up at him, and the hope there was akin to a physical blow, stunning Stiles. It was jarring, how much faith Scott was putting in him, how he couldn't remember what that had been like in high school, because it had just _stopped_ , somewhere along the way. 

"You think so?"

"Yeah man, I do."

(They both stopped at two drinks, and Stiles remained in the kitchen when Scott decided to go to bed. He went out to his car and retrieved the bottle of whiskey. He was listening to the storm when his dad got home, eyes on the rain pelting the windows and the flashes of lightning washing the world in blue. Unspeaking, he poured two glasses and they drank in silence.)

* * *

Scott had gone out to his interview, after giving Stiles a pleading glance that Stiles had ignored. Scott's choice of emissary needed to be his own. Stiles knew he wouldn't be any better than Allison or Issac, his own biases working against him. He decided to trust Rick's judgment on it. Rick wouldn't have suggested anyone like Deaton.

He'd settled into the couch for his first quiet morning in weeks, lounging peacefully after an agonizingly long hot shower. Five minutes away from a decent nap, the doorbell rang.

His dad and Melissa were both asleep, enjoying a late morning. The doorbell rang again, and Stiles pushed himself up, cursing people that thought housecalls were acceptable at ten in the morning.

When he opened the door, he immediately slammed it shut. It took a minute, but he opened it again and glared out at Deaton, who was standing as if a door hadn't been slammed in his face. Implacable. Stiles imagined him getting shot from a trebuchet.

Deaton's calm didn't falter.

"May I come in?"

"Scott isn't here."

"I'm not here for Scott."

"Of course you're not," Stiles muttered, rubbing his face. "It's ten in the _morning_."

"I'm not able to make the trip up to Portland, and I need to speak with you. Now seems as good a time as any."

"Fine," Stiles grunted, stepping to the side and watching Deaton as he walked inside. "Any tricks and I'll shoot you and make it look like a break in. Pretty sure dad will help."

"No tricks," Deaton told him, heading for the kitchen. Stiles wanted to tell him to stop acting like he had any right, especially now, but kept his mouth shut and followed him to the back of the house. He'd put on coffee, which Deaton poured himself a mug of. It bespoke a familiarity that bothered Stiles, made him want to throw the former emissary out. Violently.

Deaton sat his mug on the table, sitting where Scott had sat the night before. He slipped his satchel off of his shoulder and sat it on the table, waiting with an air of expectation. Stiles poured himself a cup of coffee and took his seat from the night before, resting his elbows on the table.

"I don't have time for you or your games. What do you want?"

Deaton, being the theatrical bastard that he was, took a sip of coffee and paused before sitting the mug back on the table. "When I first realized your potential," He began slowly. "I ignored it. You were fifteen, and Scott was still human."

"And you were pretending you'd never heard of magic."

"Correct," Deaton admitted, not looking at all ashamed of it. "You hadn't manifested, and there was no reason to believe you would. When Scott was bitten, I still turned a blind eye towards your potential. You were too young, and the stakes were too high back then."

"But not when two psychopaths and a kanima were running around," Stiles muttered. "Wonderful time to give a kid magic and _not_ tell him."

"I didn't trigger the manifestation, Stiles."

"Then who did?" He demanded. "Who else would throw a clueless teenager into that mess but you?"

"You manifested on your own," Deaton declared calmly.

"Bullshit." Manifestations almost always took an external trigger. His grandfather's journals had listed a family recipe, Lydia had been bitten by Peter, Rick had described a process his family followed. But it always required some sort of external force.

Deaton looked mildly offended by the accusation. "Your and Lydia's manifestations were almost simultaneous, and even though I have tried, I can't tell which of you was first. It was that close, Stiles. I can't say what exactly triggered it, only that it _was_ internal. When I gave you the mountain ash, you'd already begun the process."

"Any human could have used the mountain ash. I was just the only one that wasn't involved with hunters."

"That's true. But mountain ash is one of the first things anyone gifted learns to use, and not just anyone could bridge the gap like you did. I'd planned for you to become Derek's emissary, at the time."

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles demanded, glaring at Deaton. "We hated each other. He would have killed me. I might have killed him. Or we would have killed each other," He stressed. And it was the complete truth. He wouldn't have been able to oath to Derek back then, his loyalties too divided between Scott and his dad and-And even Derek, a little. He'd never have been able to sacrifice one for the other. "Did you _want_ us to self destruct?"

Deaton gave him a flat look. "Scott was simply a beta, and I had hope Derek would become an alpha worth the title. But I couldn't be his emissary."

"You mean wouldn't."

"Perhaps. It wasn't in me to do it again, and Lydia was being manipulated by Peter. You were the only viable option, and you'd already made a habit of helping Derek."

"And yet it was still a-okay to cut me off."

"When Scott showed signs of rising, the alpha in question changed, that's all," He said, as if he wasn't admitting to brushing Derek aside like an afterthought. "But then you made the sacrifice, and Derek fell." Deaton paused, a strangely haunted look crossing his features, there and gone before Stiles could pin it down. "Despite what you may believe, I tried to find a suitable tutor for you, one that wouldn't try to train the pack instinct out of you. When Rick called, it was something of a miracle. You and Lydia were different. You were both part of a pack before you were made aware of your potential. That was important. Our world is changing, and the old ways of doing things have to change with them. I had hopes for both of you to help facilitate that change. "

"Change?"

"Our roles have been the same for centuries. Distance, objectivity. They can't be the only goals anymore. The hierarchies need emissaries to be more than just impartial witnesses, advising them from a pedestal."

"Rick said it wasn't always that way."

"I can't honestly say. There have been exceptions, of course. There always are. But the rule itself needs to change."

"And you thought Lydia and I would, what? Be the shining lights of a new age?" Because of course the world needed more morally gray people in positions of authority. Deaton had to be an idiot not to understand the kind of damage he and Lydia would have done if they'd followed through with his vision.

"Better than seeing another pack burn because of a noninterference policy."

It was hard to argue that.

Deaton opened his satchel and pulled out an old leather book. The smell of smoke filtered into the room, and Stiles immediately recoiled at the sight of the triskele on the cover.

"I take it you know what this is."

"Why do _you_ have it?"

"I found it after the fire."

"I meant, why didn't you return it to Derek with everything else?" Stiles demanded coldly. "This belongs to him."

"It belongs to a Hale alpha," Deaton corrected. Stiles surprised himself with the amount of terrible things he could picture happening to Deaton in the span of the ensuing pause. "And that could have just as easily meant Peter or Cora."

"Don't bullshit me," Stiles hissed through clenched teeth. "Peter only became an alpha in the fall. Years. You've had it for _years_."

"Held in trust, as Hale tradition dictates when a pack fractures as Derek's did."

"And why now?"

"Because it's your responsibility now."

Stiles stared down at the book, the triskele a painful echo of Derek's tattoo. His fingers moved on the table, tracing the pattern from memory.

"It ends with Derek's fall. You'll have pick up where I left off."

"You weren't his emissary then."

"But it was still my responsibility."

"You have a very selective sense of duty."

"I never made vows to Laura or Peter, or Derek. I made a promise to Talia, and upheld it."

Stiles thought about the difference. "You didn't. Talia would have wanted you to help her son. You owed her _memory_ that much. You just made yourself feel better with this."

Deaton didn't argue. Stiles wasn't sure what would be accomplished if he had.

"We both know you're not like me," He finally said. "Which was always the point."

"I'm not your accomplishment to feel good about," Stiles ground out.

"And yet you're still here where I'd first hoped you'd be, Derek's emissary and his packmate."

The words hit too close to home, worrying a wound he had no intention of examining anywhere near the vet. "If that's all you came here for, you can show yourself out," Stiles told him, refusing to meet his gaze. Deaton always saw too much, and Stiles didn't want him to see anything, not when he was pretending that he'd orchestrated everything. He didn't deserve that much credit.

Deaton paused. "I'd understand if you're suffering the effects of what you did to Peter. But the remnants of the nidstang are still an issue. It's what you noticed last night. If you need help with anything, you know how to find me."

Stiles knew he was thinking loudly enough to project his thoughts on that particular offer.

Deaton got up and shouldered his bag again. The mostly full coffee cup sat on the table after the front door opened and closed, the only sign the man had ever been there.

That and the book.

Stiles' fingers itched to open it even as he mentally recoiled, the impulse feeling like a betrayal. Caroline kept her book hidden away. He'd only ever seen it once, after he'd completed the final initiation and sworn oaths to the pack as an emissary. Her volume of her pack's history had been old, much older than the book sitting on the table. She and Rick were the only ones with easy access to it.

Derek could have used the book, years ago.

Christ. Had Scott read it? As a Hale's progeny and an alpha, it would have been within his rights to, even if some more traditional circles might have considered it profane. It _felt_ sacrilegious, the thought of Scott reading the Hale's record. An invasion of privacy made all the worse because Derek had never been allowed the opportunity.

Stiles pushed the book away and braced his elbows on the table, his face cradled in his hands.

His dad found him that way, coffee long gone cold. Stiles listened, eyes closed as his dad rummaged around the kitchen. Coffee first, a spot of warmth coming to rest near his elbow as his mug was refilled. Then pots and pans, the fridge, the gas stove clicking as it lit.

He didn't open his eyes until his dad put the plate in front of him and took a seat across from him.

"You look rough."

"Deaton came by."

"What did he want?"

Stiles gestured at the book. "That's the Hale record. Like a family bible, except for werewolves. He's had it the entire time."

"I take it that's a bad thing."

"Pretty sure Derek thinks it was lost in the fire. They're really important, especially for new alphas. And Deaton had it the whole time," He repeated. "Imagine if someone kept grandad's journals away from me knowing how much I needed them, if they were one of the only resources I had."

"I thought we've been aware that he's untrustworthy."

"Yeah, but dad-" Stiles shook his head. "These are seriously like bibles. Family history, lore, secrets. They all go in here. Derek's mom wrote in this. His grandad, the alphas. I can't-He might have been different, it he'd read this. So much could have been different."

Breakfast was ignored, his dad almost mirroring his posture across the table, elbows resting on it's surface, hands clasped together. "You can't undo the past. You can only go forward."

Stiles had no idea what forward was anymore.

"Son, how are you holding up?" His dad asked when he sat there, staring blankly ahead.

"I might blow up another house," He admitted.

"Before or after the pack evacuates?"

Stiles rubbed his face, tugged lightly at his hair. "I don't know. They keep acting like everything is okay, you know? Like Derek is just on a weekend vacation."

"You sound like you don't think he's coming back."

Stiles chewed his lower lip, trying to think of how to answer. Because if he told the truth, he'd sound like he'd lost faith in Derek, and his dad would want a feelings talk. If he lied, he'd sound like he was avoiding that truth, and his dad would call him on it. He wasn't ready to deal with either scenario.

"He gave me the house." Which implied more and more every day Derek didn't have any intention of coming back.

"It _is_ your house, isn't it?" His dad said, staring him down. Stiles knew the look, but couldn't comprehend what his dad was saying. He probably should. He'd never had a problem understanding before.

"Meaning?"

"Maybe _you_ should think about what that means."

"I've already had to deal with Deaton today. The cryptic comments portion of my tolerance is already at a low," Stiles muttered as the front door opened and closed.

"What was Deaton doing here?" Scott called out.

Stiles groaned. "Drop off for me and a heads up about the leftover bits of the curse I need to handle. He's gone, no worries. Nothing catastrophic."

"Then why do you smell pissed off?" Scott appeared, looking better than he had the night before, slinging his bike jacket over the back of a chair.

"Deaton was his normal charming self and dad's emulating him. How'd the interview go?"

"Pretty good, actually. Insu's a cool guy. We haven't decided anything yet, but he's coming back soon for a longer visit." Scott paused, his gaze falling to the book. "What's that?"

"Hale family bible."

"And Deaton had it? I would have thought Peter would have gotten his claws into it."

"Turns out Deaton had it stashed away. He dropped it off earlier, with the typical Yoda shtick." At least that answered the question of whether or not Scott had read it.

"Figures," Scott muttered, plopping down into his chair. "Mom still asleep?"

"Enjoying a bubble bath," John smirked. "She said no interruptions, or else. Pretty sure she took the gun in with her."

"Mom time," Scott said, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Yeah, I remember that. I'd rather hide at Deaton's than bother her."

"Wuss," Stiles teased.

"Self preservation instincts," Scott tutted. "Just ask your dad."

"We're not asking me anything," John muttered. "I've got an appointment with Chris-"

"Seriously?" Stiles asked, pointedly not looking at Scott.

"Chris and I still work together, and there's an old case I need to ask him about."

"Animal attack?"

"We recovered a body out in the preserve. A tree fell and knocked a few smaller ones down in the process. When one of them came up, a body was tangled in the roots. It has it's fair share of weaponry on it. I was going to ask if he knew anything about it one way or the other."

"Sounds exciting."

"Yeah, well. If you ever have to dump a body, don't do it in my jurisdiction."

"Peter was cremated, dad. Miles even mixed him into a cement brick for me." It had been a macabre, belated Christmas present. Stiles still had no idea what to do with it.

"My life was simpler before werewolves," His dad muttered. Scott and Stiles both shrugged, tempted to parrot it back. His dad ate with the speed of a teenager, a hold over from his military days. Stiles looked at his plate and gave Scott a pleading glance, his appetite completely gone.

"I'm going to be very hurt if you don't eat that," His dad commented, his plate already clean.

"Kind of not hungry after dealing with Deaton," Stiles grumbled. "Whereas anyone with a werewolf metabolism is already hungry."

"You need to take care of yourself."

"I'm making a nice dinner tonight. Red meat, vegetables, the whole shebang."

"Scott, make sure he gets lunch," John sighed, taking his plate over to the sink. "Don't get into trouble while I'm gone."

"Pretty sure we're going to camp out on the couch and watch daytime television," Stiles muttered.

"At least think up a convincing lie," His dad threw over his shoulder as he walked out.

"It's sad that he thought that was a lie," Scott groaned. "No one ever believes me when I say I'm not doing anything either."

"I'd say I'm off duty, but I do need to deal with the curse. Deaton said it's what I was feeling last night, and it's probably affecting you too."

"Can you undo it?"

"I need to stop by Lydia's, but it shouldn't be a problem now, especially with Peter gone."

"You mind some company?"

"Sure. It's probably better to do it from there anyway. Last time I tried here dad yelled at me."

"Seriously?" Scott asked as he got up and took the plate over to the trash and scraped it off. "He seemed really proud of what you did while you were here."

"Long story," Stiles hedged, shrugging and draining his coffee mug and putting it in the dishwasher. Vomiting in the garage was still something of a humiliating experience. He paused to tuck the book under his arm. "I'll go grab my jacket."

"You want to do it now?"

"Sooner the better."

"Don't you need to eat or something first?"

"Eating after, otherwise I might get sick," He called over his shoulder, already heading up the stairs. Scott said something that he failed to catch. Stairs were easier than they'd been, although he still wasn't running up them. When he got in, he immediately went for his duffel. It wasn't the best spot for it, but he didn't want to leave it out in the open, or in his car.

His finger traced the triskele on the cover, the leather stiff and unyielding, as unlike flesh as it could be. It was unnerving, for a moment. He'd expected warmth, maybe. Something softer. The temptation to open it hit him again, stifled by the sense of respect he had for one of the few truly sacred things he'd ever come across. Mindful of the pages, he tucked it between layers of clothing and zipped the bag shut.

His (Derek's) jacket was still on the back of the small armchair in the corner. Ignoring the voice in his head that said his paint splattered jeans probably weren't meant for society, he grabbed and hooked it over his shoulder before walking back out. Melissa was in the hall, closing the door to her room. She had a towel slung around her shoulders, a domestic picture Stiles found-Normal. It was normal.

He'd examine it later. For the moment, he was willing to congratulate himself on becoming a mature adult.

"You guys heading out?"

"I need to make a stop at Lydia's."

"Any reason?"

"Just something left over from last month I need to deal with, no biggie. Should be back in a couple of hours, tops."

"Okay," She said, still looking worried.

"It's nothing, promise," Stiles repeated. "Just a leftover bit of spell I need to fix."

"Not the one with Peter, right?"

"Right," He parroted. "It's one of the minor ones I did. Nothing bad, I swear on all that's holy, no big magic."

"Fine, Stiles," She sighed, the picture of mock exasperation. "I managed to switch shifts with someone, so I expect a good dinner tonight."

"On my honor," He said, saluting and clicking his heels together. Melissa rolled her eyes and continued past him and down the stairs. He followed at a slower pace, his leg twinging. He wondered if he'd be able to start telling the weather by it, and if a storm was coming.

Scott was waiting by the door, dangling his key to the jeep in his hand.

"No way," Stiles quipped, snatching them from Scott's hand. Scott mimed a wounded look, his lower lip jutting out. Stiles huffed and stepped outside, shuddering as the cold immediately set in. Scott stayed next to him as they took the stairs, and Stiles measured each step, determined to keep any sign of the pain from showing.

Once they'd gotten into the car and on the road, Scott only seemed to grow more anxious.

"Dude, what's wrong?"

"I don't know whether to ask about what's going on with you or not," Scott blurted, then palmed his face and muttered something too quiet to hear. "Like, I don't know if I have a right to pry, or anything."

Stiles almost said something pithy, an offhand remark that wouldn't have meant anything. But Scott was sincerely worried about it, a quick glance over at him providing the picture of insecure concern. He looked back to the road and tried to come up with a simple answer, if not an easy one.

"You can ask. If it's something I don't want to talk about, I'll say so."

Scott was silent for a minute, staring straight ahead out the window. He was still staring straight ahead when he started speaking. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but you and Derek. How are you holding up?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"About you and Derek, or Derek in general?"

"Both."

"Okay," Scott said, sinking back into his seat. "What about the hole in your head?"

Stiles knew instinctively what Scott was talking about, although that subject felt just as volatile as the topic of Derek.

"It's manageable." That was as much of an effort as he could muster.

"So it's still there?"

"Abram says it's always going to be there."

Scott shifted in his seat, turning to look out his passenger window. "Is it worse than the nemeton?"

Stiles didn't have a concrete answer for that.

"If you're wanting to try it, I'd say better the devil you know."

"It wasn't," Scott denied quietly, still looking away. "I'm worried about you, you know? I know it's been hard since I got bitten. It just feels like you haven't been allowed to just relax or take a break or anything."

"I had it pretty easy with Caroline," Stiles admitted. "Aside from learning from Rick, there wasn't much excitement."

"But there was always the problem here. And now this whole thing with the pack in your house. You look tired. Like you need a vacation or something. A real one, not one where you're still dealing with werewolves."

"Emissaries don't get vacations," Stiles muttered, taking a turn at a stop sign without waiting. "We get to deal with pining betas while alphas take vacations."

"Have you tried to find him?"

It took everything he had not to snap out a cutting remark, a feat managed only because he'd been the one dumb enough to bring the situation up in the first place. Stiles shook his head. "Miles offered, and I'm pretty sure he knows where he is, but I want Derek to come back on his own. He needs to figure out his own crap first, deal with whatever's going on in his head before trying to handle a pack."

"Yeah, but when are you going to have time to figure things out?"

Stiles pulled into Lydia's driveway, grateful for an excuse to change the subject. "You're still immune to mountain ash, right?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome. If I pass out, wake me up."

"If you pass out? I thought you said this was going to be easy."

"Simple, not easy," Stiles muttered, getting out. Scott was making an angry, buzzing sort of huffing sound. Stiles vaguely remembered it from their highschool days, familiar in the same way Beacon Hills was familiar. He ignored the twinge in his leg and fiddled with his keys, finding the vaguely unfamiliar one.

"She gave you a key?"

"Yeah. She gave me free reign of her medicine cabinet too." Mostly she'd just wanted him to have a safe place when he visited, a quiet offer when they'd been alone, the key pushed into his hand and a warning to replace anything he depleted. Stiles slipped it into the lock and twisted, heard the new tumblers sliding up into place.

The house still smelled new, although the emptiness of it echoed, stale air and untouched surfaces. Dust and vacancy. Scott closed the door behind him and followed him up the stairs. Stiles paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. He hadn't been back in the workroom since he'd almost died there.

A hand gripped his shoulder. "If you can't do it here, it's okay dude."

Stiles twisted the knob and stepped in, his heartbeat stumbling when he remembered the sound of wood splintering. The door had been replaced, the frame too. The tile was a newer, paler slate. Large pieces that fit together almost seamlessly. The window seat had changed as well, the entire room looking like it had been redone instead of just fixing the floor.

"Lydia went a little crazy after Peter got in here. There are like, three layers of mountain ash and metal sheets in the floor. Payton showed her how. I think she needed to keep busy until you woke up."

"She didn't mention that. I think I'd kill to see her trying to use a hammer without screwing up her manicure."

"She only let Payton help because he told her she'd kill herself otherwise. Miles backed it up and told her they didn't want her magister coming after them. Rick helped a little too, with some sort of spell. He was sort of-" Scott trailed off.

"Caroline's family home hasn't been compromised since 1860, when the last one was burned down. Lydia probably looked insane to them. They don't know what it's like to have an enemy walk into your house. They probably don't think anyone would dare."

"I got that impression," Scott admitted. "It was nice though, that they feel that secure."

"Chris figured out where they lived based on a cell phone number and some towers."

"Seriously? He knew?"

"He knew something," Stiles muttered, walking over to the closet. It too had changed, a new door surrounded by new walls. When he opened the door, he felt the initial resistance of something testing him, then the way opening, the echo of resistance fading.

"Why did you call Chris?"

"Hunters in Portland got to Caroline. I needed to know who it was," He said, looking at the shelves. Lydia, or Payton and Miles, maybe all of them, had been busy.

"So there are hunters up there."

"There are hunters everywhere," Stiles bit out, thinking about that night. It had shattered the security he'd allowed himself to believe in. In the minutes Marianne had carried Caroline in, and the days after, it had been like Beacon Hills, jumpy and anxious, nightmares. It had been worth it though. He wouldn't take it back. Couldn't. "Some are just stupid."

He found the box of chalk pens and pulled them down. There were new items, ones that hadn't been there before. A new sheet of black volcanic glass, fresh herbs, even a few boxes he recognized from Miles' website. Lengths of cut woods with labels tied to them cluttered one end of the pantry, leaning against the wall. Stiles reached for a length of ash and stopped before moving to rest on a length of oak.

Scott caught it when he tossed it to him. Going back to the shelves, he found a new supply of knives and black salt, probably another of Rick's contributions.

"Do you ever miss being normal?" Stiles asked, coming back out and sitting down in the middle of the floor.

"Sometimes," Scott admitting, sitting a few feet away, the length of oak resting across his knees. "Like when mom complains about gray hair."

"I can't remember when this stopped being strange," Stiles confessed. "Dead languages and cursed battle axes."

"You lost me."

"My first working with Rick. Someone put a curse on some weapons. Homicidal rage to whosoever decided to wield them."

"You'd think other emissaries would have undone them by now."

Stiles snorted, actual amusement coming through. "Archaeologists would cry if they knew the amount of history emissaries have stashed away. Most of the stuff still having problems actually comes from private collectors though, sometimes museums. I don't know where Deaton found those, but he sent them on to Rick."

"And you guys exorcised them?"

"Yeah. Fun night, let me tell you. I thought I'd given a nuclear reactor a blowjob."

"Did they start floating or anything?"

"No. Physical manifestations like that are really hard to pull off, and not really worth the effort even if you can manage it." He was still glad he hadn't known that little fact when Jennifer had locked him out of the classroom and taken off with his dad. When he'd described it to Rick, the man's expression had been nothing short of horrified. Stiles had the impression he'd been lucky to survive, temporary death or not.

"What about telekinesis?"

Stiles chewed his lip thoughtfully, staring down at the floor and what he'd written so far. "It's actually one of the rarer gifts. Abram's brother has it."

"So everyone gets a different gift?"

"Some family lines have the same gift, like a gene. Abram said his family has a recessive gift, and somehow it manifested in his brother. They thought it was a poltergeist or something at first. Most people do."

"So you got it from your grandad?"

"Yeah."

"It's kind of awesome though, right? You mentioned finding out more about your mom's family."

Stiles nodded absently. "Yeah. Abram heard a few stories from his teacher, who was my grandad's apprentice. There's a second cousin twice removed or whatever in Kiev too, although he's the emissary for a clan of zmey."

"Zmey?"

"Serpents or dragons," Stiles murmured. "Whichever one doesn't make you question your worldview."

"Pretty sure I got over that when I found out banshees were real."

"Dragons still feel like a big deal. I'm pretty sure if I get used to dragons I'm screwed for new experiences."

"You make an excellent point," Scott chuckled. Stiles glanced over and saw his brother leaning on his palms, relaxed and content. "You ever think of visiting Russia?"

"Sometimes. Then I remember that as a whole they're still not fond of anyone that's not straight." And fuck Putin anyway. If Abram could be believed, the guy was a koschei, and the lore made each and every one of them out to be power starved assholes.

"Who was your first boyfriend, anyway?"

"Mark," Stiles muttered, rolling his eyes. "He thought I was cheating on him with Derek and Cass, In retrospect, I can't really blame him for being suspicious. I was keeping the werewolf secret and I was more emotionally invested in Derek and Cass. We broke up in my car after the worst dinner ever."

"The food or the mood?"

"I introduced him to Derek and Cass. Cass and I babbled nervously and Derek was his normal charming self. I remember seriously considering whether or not to stab him with my fork."

"You think he was in love with you then?"

Stiles' hand jerked across the slate, a line of white chalk bisecting several runes.

"I'm sorry," Scott muttered, sitting back up, his body going tense. "I didn't mean to ask that. It just slipped out."

"No," Stiles muttered, dropping the pen and running a hand through his hair. He'd need to wash the line and start the section over. He'd actually sort of forgotten that he and Scott had issues, for a minute. They'd just been talking, like they had before. "I get it. Uh. Yeah. I don't-" Love. He shied away from the word, even though he'd said it to Derek hundreds of times since the first time. The change was-He swallowed the bitterness at the back of his throat, a phantom taste left over. "Derek wasn't interested in anyone back then. Annette had a thing for him and he just stonewalled her, told me he wasn't ready for anything. I was pretty sure he was settling on celibacy considering his romantic history."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault man. It just took me off guard."

"Still."

"Stop apologizing. If we're going to do this we're going to hit touchy shit. Might as well accept it now."

"I probably shouldn't be dancing through a minefield while you're working on a spell though."

"Point."

"I'll just-Do you need me to go downstairs or something?"

"Actually, yeah, go get me a wet rag."

Scott got up without hesitation, the wooden staff resting on the floor. Stiles watched him walk out and took a deep breath, ignored the voice in his head that ridiculed him for being so touchy about it. He had a right to be touchy. Christ, he and his dad had barely managed a word about his mother for years after her death. He was allowed a few weeks.

Scott came back in, a damp rag dangling from his hand. Stiles accepted it and carefully wiped away the runes that had been cut through. It wasn't necessary, really. He'd know them regardless. But Scott looked a little less guilty for the brief escape, and he felt marginally better.

"What's the weirdest thing you've ever done with your gift?"

"I enchanted a magic eight ball to be accurate."

"You can do that?"

"It took a few weeks," Stiles said, frowning. "I never got to ask it anything but sports scores and whether or not I'd be getting laid soon. Turned out it was right."

"Do you still have it?"

"Broke it," He hedged, thinking about the blue water spilling from Derek's fingers. "Never tried to make another one. It was ethically fuzzy, I think."

"That's still pretty cool though. Lydia's really traditional in some ways. Like her mirrors and bowls of water for scrying. An eightball is definitely new."

"Not much difference," Stiles admitted, checking the floor. Satisfied that it wasn't too damp, he started writing again. "Lydia's gift is reading. Or hearing, however you want to look at it. Since mine doesn't run that way, I needed to work with something familiar to me. Back then that was an eightball."

"And now?"

Stiles paused, staring down at the runes. "I haven't tried magic since I got back. I think my brain is still catching up."

"Should you be doing this?"

"I'll be fine."

"You said that last time."

Stiles shrugged uncomfortably, not having any counter for that. Blaming it on Peter would give away the lie. "Peter's not in the currents anymore, so I won't have to fight them."

Scott didn't press for any more reassurances, and Stiles didn't offer any. When he finished the lines of runes, he gestured for the staff and began writing on it, hoping to alter what he'd done before enough that it would work without demanding too much of his personal reserves.

By the time he finished, Scott was leaning forward, eyes open in abject fascination. Feeling self conscious, Stiles rubbed the back of his neck and tried to figure out when he'd lost himself in the writing of the spell.

"This should work."

"Please don't end up in the hospital again."

"I won't," Stiles muttered, holding the staff upright in the center of the runes he'd drawn. "If it starts to feel weird, don't interrupt, okay? I need the resonances to hang correctly."

"Sure," Scott murmured, sliding back a few feet.

Stiles started at the base, the words around the staff coming first. It came more easily when he closed his eyes. The world felt warm beneath him, the construct of the house falling away until nothing separated him from the land. The void echoed beneath him, the spiderweb fine lines holding him over it, sturdy enough to keep him from falling.

Vague whispers echoed, the memories trapped in the land a quiet dissent. Stiles focused on those closest, tugged and pulled at them, reeled them in along the paths he'd created. Each flowed along a channel, muted blood and terror that eked through like sludge.

One corner of the territory to another, each current barely resisting as he slipped over and through them. With a sense of longing, he remembered the sturdy tether that had filled that gaping void beneath him. The movements of the world poured through his fingers, refused to stick. Syllables flowed over his tongue in an easy rhythm. Until they didn't, hot flashing over his tongue and searing it.

The memory of fire made his bones ache, his flesh bubbling, blistering until it was sloughing off, smoke pouring into his lungs. He felt each new layer of flesh rise and burn again, a constant cycle of healing and necrosis. The flesh inside of his throat smoldered, unable to form the right words. His muscles tightened beneath his skin, ripping from bone.

Light ignited behind his eyes, pain blossoming like ice forming at the back of his skull. He blinked, pried open eyes cauterized shut and coughed around the heat billowing in his lungs.

"Stiles!"

"The hell?" He slurred, wiping his mouth of dribbling saliva. Scott stared down at him, eyes blown wide and red. Panicked.

"You were having a seizure," Scott muttered. "He's awake now."

"That's good. Stiles," Deaton's voice said over the phone, echoing through the speaker. "Can you describe what just happened?"

"Fuck off," Stiles muttered viciously, feeling like an echo in his own skin, not quite there. "You are the last person that gets to play around in my head."

"Stiles, this is very important-"

"Then Rick can help me with it," He ground out, taking the phone from Scott and hitting the end button. Scott stared at him, brow furrowed.

"I thought you said I could trust him now."

"With minor stuff. Not with screwing around in my gray matter," Stiles muttered, shoving the phone at Scott. The void felt bigger, closer below him. "I can't do it. There's something that tripped me up. I don't know what it was."

"I can ask Insu if he can do it, next time he's here."

"Pose it as an interview thing. Tell him to ask Deaton or call me if he wants specifics." It wasn't in him to give it up so easily, it was his mess after all. He should be the one to undo it. But the pain and anguish that had filled him hadn't been from outside of himself. It had been personal, welling up inside of him from some dark corner of his own mind.

"You need help getting up?"

Damn, his side throbbed, the phantom pains only making the real ones worse. "I think you're going to have to drive us back."

"You need me to carry you down?"

"Not a damsel," He muttered, pushing himself to his feet. The length of oak in his hands felt alive, the bits and pieces he'd managed to recall thrumming inside of it like living, breathing things. It was a new sensation, a new sensitivity. "We need to burn this."

"I can stop by the clinic later. There's an incinerator there."

"Awesome," Stiles groaned as he put weight on his bad leg. Pain flared up the side, phantom heat still pouring through the tissue. "Oh my Jesus, that really blows."

"Come on," Scott said, pulling an arm over his shoulder.

"You're not carrying me," Stiles muttered.

"Supporting you," Scott said, voice mild. It was almost patronizing, but Stiles felt like someone was slowly flaying the muscle in his thigh with jagged glass, so he leaned in, took the offered support.

"No telling dad about this."

"I'll think about it."

"I'm serious. I don't want him locking me up like Rapunzel."

"Promise me you'll talk to Rick about it when we get home."

Stiles almost said something cruel about it not being his home, and snapped his mouth shut and nodded. If it was a nod, his heart wouldn't screw him over, though he was almost sure it was stumbling and tripping anyway, a stutter and start in his chest that felt like it was trying to fall back into some semblance of rhythm.

He unlocked the passenger side door and dropped into the seat, hissing when a new burst of sensation flared up in his leg. Scott reached into his pocket and tugged the keys out before lifting his leg and putting it by the other like he was an invalid. The door slammed shut and he barely stifled the curse that escaped. Scott got in the other side, slamming the door shut and pushing the key into the ignition like he was stabbing something.

"Are you sure you don't need to go to a hospital?"

"Just magical whiplash," Stiles muttered.

"I can't even tell if you're lying," Scott retorted, sounding aggrieved. "Your heart's all over the place."

"I just need a nap and I'll be fine."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because the only times you've seen anyone really screw with magic it hasn't had noticeable side effects?" Stiles guessed.

"Which is why it's worrying me that you had a seizure," Scott told him, voice hard.

"Me plus magic plus Beacon Hills doesn't make for a great equation, okay? It's nothing."

"If it's nothing, then why can't you finish undoing the curse?"

Stiles opened his mouth to say it was none of Scott's business, a counter he would have used even when they were best friends. But it sort of was, and he was copping out by not finishing, something that didn't sit well with him, felt more and more like failure as they put distance between themselves and the house.

"Look. Not talking is what screwed us up in the first place," Scott began.

"Not listening is what fucked us up," Stiles muttered. "If you're going to give a pep talk at least be honest about it."

"You know what," Scott bit out, slamming on the brakes. "I get that I messed up. I can't undo it. But I can't try to do the right thing now if you won't let me."

"What am I supposed to let you do?" Stiles demanded, all the walls in his head shuttering up into place. "Pry into my life, try to talk to me about my feelings?"

"Yes!"

"Since when have my fucking feelings mattered?" Stiles accused, the words flying out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"That's not fair," Scott blurted, looking just as angry as Stiles felt, face red and hands fisted around the steering wheel, knuckles white. "You can't use that."

"I'm going to walk," Stiles said, opening the door. Scott reached across him and pulled it shut with enough force to rock the entire jeep.

"No. You're not walking away. I get that you're pissed, but you can't throw that in my face any time you don't want to talk about something. If that's something you want to yell at me about specifically, fine. But don't use it to make me back off. That's bullshit and you know it."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Something, anything. Whatever's in your head that needs to get out. At some point we have to actually try. If you won't talk to me, at least talk to your dad!"

"And say what? That I have a black hole inside of my head? That I screwed up and turned Derek into an alpha because I am just that spectacularly incapable! I can't even undo my own goddamn curse!" Stiles shouted, voice cracking over the words. "And it's my fault! How am I supposed to just sit there and whine to my dad like a dumbass five year old when it's my fault?" Stiles demanded, the words coming out in every harsh exhale until his lungs felt like they were collapsing in his chest. His hands were in the air, caught as if he'd forgotten which movement came next in his rant. He shoved the under his arms, realized the defensive posture too late to correct it.

Scott's gaze was watery, sympathetic, and even a little hurt, though why Stiles couldn't begin to imagine. It wasn't like he'd mentioned how much he wanted one goddamn thing in his life to go right, and he'd hoped it would be Scott, and he couldn't even seem to do that. One of his best skills was self sabotage, and he hated it, hated how he couldn't just give a little without turning it into a punishment.

A car horn honked and lights passed them, another honk turning into a long squealing whine as the car went around them and got back into the right lane.

"It's okay to be scared," Scott told him, voice wobbling. "I'm terrified pretty much daily. Hourly. I'd rather face the alpha pack again than deal with the pack and alliances and being an alpha. My pack won't even talk to me right now, even though I'm trying to do the right thing. I want to go forward and half the time I don't know what forward _is_. I feel like I should know and I'm failing as an alpha, as a _person_ , because I don't."

"When I did the spell I altered Derek's fate and forced him to kill Peter." It wasn't a contest, one didn't invalidate the other. But Stiles was hard pressed to imagine a world where Allison and Issac didn't forgive Scott. Derek-Derek wasn't coming back. And if he knew what had set events into motion, Stiles doubted he ever would.

Scott pressed the gas, but only far enough to pull into an empty driveway. "Derek killed Peter because Peter was trying to kill you and he was the first one in the house. If it had been me, I would have done it. Your dad too. Lydia, Cassie, any of us."

Stiles shook his head, scrubbed his face with his hand. "No, the spell actually altered Peter's fate, and it affected Derek's. Rick thinks Cassie was going to kill him. Her potential as an alpha is gone."

Scott stared ahead, looking beyond the garage door sitting in front of them. "Cassie's never killed before, has she?"

Stiles shook his head. "No."

"I think-" Scott took another deep breath. "I think Derek would have done it if just to spare her that. After Deucalion and Jennifer, he told me killing changes a person, that it destroys something inside."

"I took the choice away from him."

"Not intentionally. You wouldn't do something like that on purpose."

Stiles had no counter for that, although it was cold comfort. Intentions or not, the result remained.

"What was plan B?"

Stiles glanced over at Scott, who was watching him intently. "Huh?"

"Plan B. You mentioned it on the phone. Derek said the plan the whole time was to burn Peter out. But that means it wasn't plan b."

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't know if I'd have to have Peter's blood to complete it or not. Plan B was me finding him."

"I still know when you're not telling me everything," Scott huffed, almost sounding fond. "You were going to try and kill him yourself, weren't you?"

Stiles ran a hand through his hair before wrapping his arms around his middle. He hadn't said anything to Derek, although Derek had known. If he'd been forced to get Peter's blood, he'd have gone all the way and slit his throat himself, and saved Derek the trauma. Plan B had been only half written before Derek had grasped his intentions.

"Things with Peter never happen how we expect them to. Don't blame yourself for how it went down. At least we made it out alive."

"I made Derek an alpha again."

"He's _alive_ ," Scott reiterated. "And if, and this is a huge if, you made him an alpha again, you didn't set out to do that. Don't bottle everything up just because you think it's your fault. Whine about it, cry, bitch, yell, whatever. You have a right to feel however you feel."

"I hate my life. Good enough?"

"Then do something to change it."

"I can't fill up the hole in my skull and I can't turn back time, undo the spell and make Derek a beta again. I can't make him come back. I can't-" Fix anything. The words went unsaid, stuck in his mouth in a tangle of barbed wire syllables that wouldn't come out for Scott, maybe not for anyone.

"Work with what you have then. Stop thinking in terms of what you can't do. What can you do?" Scott interrupted.

"I can pretend your motivational speech is working."

"Fake it till you make it, right?"

"You're an asshole," Stiles huffed, only half joking.

"I learned from you," Scott accused. "I'm serious. You've had a month to let the whole thing sink in. You can either mope about it and let it run your life or you can do something about it."

"Because it's working so well for you?" Stiles snapped, then felt a fresh wash of shame when Scott actually flinched. "That was shitty. I'm sorry."

Scott's hands danced over the steering wheel. "I avoided making real decisions for years. I almost lost you and my mom. I hurt Allison and Issac and alienated everyone else. If you want to talk about making it easy for Peter, I did everything but wrap myself in a bow. I'm trying now, and it does suck. Right now. It'll get better, eventually. I won't feel guilty sleeping next to Allison and Issac every night, and it'll make me a better alpha."

"Do you actually believe that?"

Scott shrugged, offering a sad half smile. "I can't imagine feeling any worse than I already do."

It was uncomfortably close to something his father had said once, and Stiles shied away from the memory of that particular non-discussion. "Nowhere to go but up?"

"It's worth it though."

Stiles thought about the pendant he'd worn, the life he'd given up for the life he'd thought was his. It could be, maybe. If he could figure out how to change anything.

"I think so."

"It is," Scott declared with quiet, steady conviction.

When Stiles couldn't figure out a reply, Scott pulled out of the driveway and back onto the road. By the time they got back to the house, the pain in his leg had quieted to the normal dull throbbing. Scott switched off the ignition, but neither of them made a move to get out of the car.

"Do you think we're ever going to get better?"

Stiles thought before replying, hearing something fragile in Scott's voice, a familiar sound he empathized with. "In general, or with each other?"

"With each other."

"I don't know. I hope so," He admitted. "I mean, we're talking. Your head's not up your ass, and I'm not cursing you. It feels like an improvement."

"Way to set the bar," Scott quipped in a dry voice.

"You're already showing signs of Stockholm syndrome. My sarcasm is rubbing off on you. I should probably go before you start a cult." He was only half joking. Being around Scott was-It was easier and so much harder than he'd thought it would be. Without the buffers of packs and training, they were just themselves, and their history, with everything it carried and implied.

"You still have to make dinner tonight."

"Yeah yeah," Stiles muttered, reaching over to pull the keys from the ignition. "I need a nap."

"You need to eat something."

"Not right now," Stiles said, groaning as he opened the car door and shifted his leg, inciting a new wave of unpleasant throbbing. "When I wake up."

"You need any help?"

"Got it," Stiles said, slamming the door and heading for the stairs. Scott followed right behind him, as if waiting for the moment he'd need to catch him. Stiles felt like maybe he'd been enough of an ass for the day, and didn't comment on it as he took the stairs and walked inside. He did turn the corner into the living room and collapsed on the couch, toeing off his shoes and letting them drop on the floor.

"Crashing there?" Scott hummed.

"If I crash in a bed I'll sleep too long," Stiles muttered.

Scott turned on the television, keeping it low. Stiles turned away, facing the cushions and closed his eyes.

(He dreamed of a woman telling him that his eyes were beautiful. He dreamed she turned into a pillar of salt.)

When he woke up, it was already evening. Scott was dozing in the armchair, legs stretched out onto the coffee table. Stiles sat up and stretched, remembered he'd crashed still wearing the goddamn leather jacket. Feeling uncomfortably stifled, he shrugged it off and tossed it carelessly over the arm of the couch before getting up and walking to the empty kitchen.

A glance at the clock on the stove told him he still had enough time to make a decent meal. Humming under his breath, he went back over the failed attempt to undo the curse with fresh eyes, stalwartly ignoring his conversation with Scott.

Scott wandered in a little while later, while he was cutting up vegetables. His dad came in after, stretching and muttering about paperwork.

His dad and Scott started talking about the apartments Scott had been looking at, and the places that had clicked with Scott, his dad giving a very thorough report of the crimes that had occurred in each. It wasn't discouraging exactly, but when he described the couple that got in knockdown dragouts every weekend at one, Scott axed it. The one with the woman that had all the cats -'No, Scott, I mean she literally leaves out twenty cans of tuna every day, the smell is awful'- quickly followed.

Melissa strolled in looking relaxed and content, joining the conversation about the different parts of town Scott was looking into. Stiles worked absently, listening and adding in his own two cents. The kitchen itself began to take on the same quality Caroline's kitchen always seemed to have, feeling a little smaller than it was, but warmer. Cozy. It was the sort of thing he'd imagined when he was in Portland, in the middle of a family dinner. The discomforts of the morning were forgotten in easy chatter. Melissa mentioned going to the beach house in Ventura for a short vacation, and Scott told them about the local restaurants.

The easiness came to a screeching halt when Melissa asked what he was making. The name was on the tip of his tongue, eluding conscious thought. He looked down at the cutting board and then over at the stove where the steaks were on the grill top and chewed his lip. He should know what he was cooking, obviously. It was Elise's favorite.

Stiles stared at the counter, the dim haziness of confusion plummeting into horror.

"What's wrong?" Scott asked, moving to get up. The wooden chair legs squealed slightly, making Stiles cringe at the noise.

"Nothing. It's just something I'm trying out."

The room had gone eerily silent, tension slowly returning.

Stiles took a deep breath, looking at the counter and the knife held in his hands. How hadn't he noticed it before? He was holding the knife differently, more confidently. He might as well have been holding it in the wrong wrong hand, it looked, _felt_ , so alien and wrong.

"Stiles, are you okay?" His dad asked. Stiles didn't try looking at him, just kept staring down at the cut up vegetables.

It sounded so stupid. A recipe. A dream. Holding the knife. Two dreams. A hundred dreams. Familiar handwriting in Novgorod in a library that echoed a mansion. Burning alive.

"It's nothing," He lied, hoping they would leave it alone. Maybe they'd assume it was something else, christ only knew enough had happened for them to assume it was something else entirely. "Just stuff in my head. Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Scott said, as emotionally supportive as he'd been all day.

"Thanks. It's steak and veggies," He told them, the actual name still out of reach. "Just fancied up a little. And it's the only red meat you're getting for a week," He added, forcing his voice to something resembling steady as he threw a grin at his dad. John and Melissa both relaxed at the jibe, and Melissa offered a conspiratorial wink as his dad bemoaned the forced diet.

Now that he was aware of it, focusing on it, his hand was clumsy cutting up the vegetables. Clumsier than normal, in fact. With jerky, shaking movements he finished and tossed them in the pan.

The conversation began again, although he didn't allow his focus to drift to it like he had before. Instead, he focused on what he was doing, trying to force his movements into something he recognized as purely his. Overcompensating, he was his younger, clumsier self.

Dinner looked decent. He watched while everyone else dug in, exclaiming over the taste. When he took the first bite, he tasted burnt flesh.

His dad and Scott both cast him worried glances when he just pushed his food around his plate while they ate. Occasionally he'd eat some of his vegetables to placate them. When there was a lull and he felt someone staring at him, he'd pick up the conversation and start talking about the potential renovations, and Scott's classes, or the deputies at the station.

No one asked about his life, but he was getting used to people tiptoeing around him. Had gotten used to it, to the resentment that came with it.

When Scott got up to clean the dishes, Stiles got up and left the table with a quiet excuse of needing to get some fresh air. He went back to the living room and donned the discarded jacket and shoved his feet into his shoes.

"You mind if I join you?" His dad asked, blocking the door to the hall.

"I just need some time alone right now," Stiles said, looking over his dad's shoulder and hoping it passed for looking him in the eyes. His dad's hesitation was as obvious as his concern, but he moved to the side anyway, allowing Stiles to pass.

The hand grabbing his shoulder and squeezing gently couldn't be shrugged off, but touch felt strange, his body not quite in sync with his mind, split between examination of every unconscious movement after it happened and trying to predict and control the next.

"If you need to talk, you know I'm here. Right?"

"Right," Stiles told him, nodding, jerky motions. "Thanks."

The hand dropped down, but his dad gave him an understanding nod in return. Stiles didn't try to muster another smile before he fled, slipping out the front door and taking the steps as quickly as he could, fishing his keys out of his pockets as he did.

The drive to the clinic was quiet, the streets clear of most traffic. When he got there, the clinic was closed, the lights out for the night. Even using the key proved that the vet had already gone home. Cursing Deaton, who probably knew Stiles was looking for him, he got back into his jeep and tried to remember how to get to Deaton's house from memory.

He drove for half an hour before finding it in the third neighborhood he'd turned into. It was an utterly unassuming house, hinting at nothing. If anything, it was too neat, too prosaic, an image straight out of a suburban living magazine. Stiles got out and waited for a moment, staring at it in the dim light of the scattered streetlamps. The oak in the backyard was only just taller than the house, it's branches reaching over the roof; a detail he'd completely missed the last time he'd been there.

The front door opened, drawing his attention. Deaton appeared calm, like he'd been expecting company. Stiles hesitated, wondered if he should go back to his dad's house and call Rick instead. It was the smarter option. Rick would know what he'd done, and probably wouldn't piecemeal the information like Deaton most likely would.

But Rick might also tell Cassie or someone else in the pack. He might tell Caroline. And Stiles wasn't willing to risk it until he knew what exactly was going on.

"I have tea steeping," Deaton said, finally breaking the silence. Stiles walked up the sidewalk and took the stairs one at a time, the pain in his leg hobbling him.

Once inside, Deaton led him to a small library, the walls lined with utilitarian bookshelves filled with books of every possible size and make, a jumble of paperbacks and old leather bound tomes. There was a desk and two chairs sitting in front of it, and a transparent glass pot of tea steeping, the bottom of the brew darker than the top, steam wafting up like tendrils of smoke.

Stiles sat down and rubbed his knee, forgoing any attempting at hiding the motion or the pain he was trying to alleviate. Deaton sat across from him and leaned back in his chair.

"Can we skip the indeterminable silence where you try to look wise and just talk?" Stiles quipped. "You know why I'm here. Out with it."

"Elise was Peter's wife."

"I know who she was." He knew all of the Hales that had died in the fire, knew their names and ages and the conditions they'd been found in. Years of distance hadn't dulled the memory of the case file he'd unashamedly memorized. "I don't care about Elise. I care about why I'm remembering things that never happened to me."

"When you tried to undo the curse, why did you stop?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me," Stiles muttered.

"I was keeping an eye on you, so to speak. You were working counter clockwise through the territory. You stopped when you got to the west part of the preserve."

"I'm not asking you about the curse. I'm asking you why I have Peter's memories."

"The Hale house was in the western corner of the territory."

Stiles made a frustrated sound, trying not to yell. "So?"

"So Peter's memories had a visceral reaction to that part of the territory. Just like you moved like him, other parts of you are unconsciously reacting to the memories."

"So I essentially have Peter in my head now."

"Yes and no. He's not in you, per se, but when you tried to burn him out, there was transference. How much is hard to say, but it's not an influence. It's nothing like what he did to Lydia. He's completely gone."

"I was moving differently."

"Your body reacted to the memory, that's all. Peter's memories don't control you."

"You knew though. It's why you told me to write Peter's story."

"I knew before you left last month. But I was unwelcome at the time, and I thought Valdyr would see it."

That Rick hadn't could mean any number of things, but it really came down to morals and privacy. For all that Stiles was still his student, he wasn't his apprentice anymore. Trying to read him without explicit permission would be a breach of ethics. It was almost reassuring.

"Goddamnit."

"I don't think it will affect you beyond what's already occurring. It definitely won't be like the nemeton. It's merely a consequence of what you did. You had to realize there would be some sort of transference given how you used his history as a basis for the spell."

He hadn't thought about that, apparently hadn't been thinking _at all_. "So you're saying it's probably nothing more than a movie in my head?"

"On an interactive level perhaps, if your realization this evening is the extent of it. It 's hard to tell how much you got from him. I'd assume it was only highlights, but there's no sure way to tell with these things."

"I can't think of anything else, aside from a lot of dreams." Dreams that, in context, made a lot more sense.

Deaton leaned over and poured two mugs of tea. Stiles accepted one and held it in his palms, appreciated the warmth reaching into his skin and pouring through his arms.

"It's a mild analgesic, for your leg."

"Is it going to be a problem?" Stiles asked, ignoring what felt suspiciously like a peace offering.

"It shouldn't be, unless you allow his personal biases to interfere in your undertakings."

"You mean the curse," Stiles declared bluntly. "Is this supposed to be some sort of 'get over your fears' pep talk? Because your sister was better."

"You remember when I called you a spark?" Deaton said, switching topics, as if Stiles hadn't just made a jab at his dead sister. Stiles followed easily, still used to the vet's meandering. When he nodded, Deaton took a sip of tea and sat his mug back down. "A spark is a catalyst."

"Is there some sort of emissary shorthand I don't know about?" Stiles interrupted, impatient. "Because you're not the only one that's called me that."

"It's what your gift is," Deaton replied calmly. "Our gifts tend to define us, even before they manifest. You're an instigator by nature. At the moment, you're not even reacting, which could be because of Peter's memories, or because of everything that's happened to you personally over the past few months. But you're in stasis. It's not natural to you."

Before he said something that would make Deaton shut down, Stiles took a sip of the tea and winced when he burned the tip of his tongue. Setting it back down to cool, he crossed his arms and leaned forward. "Is it possible for me to tap his memories directly?"

"Anything's possible, although considering our personal history, I wouldn't be the one to help you. It would require trust, and I'm not foolish enough to believe that this visit implies anything of the sort."

"But it is possible."

"Yes."

"You're being forthcoming. I feel like I should be asking what you're sitting on."

"I'm here on Scott's sufferance. Doing anything that leads to you being harmed, however indirectly, will lead to me losing the life I've built here. And as Rick and even Scott can tell you, emissaries that have been released don't have an easy time of it in the world."

"Less so when they've lost an entire pack and a true alpha gives you the boot, I'm assuming," Stiles retorted, filing the lead to Scott away to ask his brother about later. Rick had told him enough for him to know that a released emissary wasn't trusted by anyone. Why Scott would know was another matter entirely.

"There is that."

Stiles' knee began to bounce, the silence between them dragging on. Deaton calmly sipped his tea, waiting. Stiles couldn't imagine what for.

"Anything else I should be aware of?" Stiles finally asked.

Deaton sat his cup down on the desk and crossed his legs. For a moment he actually looked-Satisfied, maybe, before the expression was gone and he was staring Stiles in the eyes. "I would think about what you asked me."

Stiles waited, knee bouncing.

"You didn't ask if Peter's memories could be stripped out. You asked if there was a way to tap into them."

Stiles stood abruptly, a rush of anger flooding through his system and making him jittery, his fingers twitching even as he curled them into fists. Because fuck Deaton's attempts at analyzing him, he'd had enough. "I'll see you around."

"Probably not," Deaton said to his back. Stiles didn't bother replying, Deaton was probably reading him anyway.

It was a dick move, but he recalled the sensations that had hit when he'd been undoing the curse. Peter's memories of burning alive. The front door slammed behind him, the cold night air chilling the memory of the fire.

Peter's memories.

He drove aimlessly, not wanting to go back to the house, not wanting to face his dad or Scott. Not until he got a lid on the truth, figured out how to compartmentalize it so it wasn't glaringly obvious something was wrong. Everyone had dealt with enough, there was no point in adding to it when neither of them could do anything for it.

Finding himself on the overgrown drive that led to what used to the Hale house shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was. Stiles stopped the car, staring at the chain suspended between two trees, cutting off road access.

He tried to figure out how badly he wanted to see the area, if he did at all. Or it could have been a compulsion, something not his own.

Apparently he wanted to see it badly enough that his tire iron seemed like a viable option. The cold made his leg ache as he slipped the tire iron between the tree and the padlocked chain. The chain itself was heavy duty, hadn't even begun to rust, really. But the lock was a cheap piece of crap, popping at the first hint of pressure. Stiles watched the chain drop, decided he didn't have the energy to pull it out of the way.

His highbeams were lost in the profuse growth that persisted in spite of the season. Despite that, he still managed to stop short, where the drive would have spread out into the massive driveway, built for the pack, for family. Peter's instincts. He knew where if he looked hard enough, figured out how to sort through the mess in his skull, he'd know where the sinkholes were, just like he knew Peter had been pissed that the tunnels had been caved in.

Stiles killed the engine but left his lights on, staring at the empty space where the house had been. Small, thin trees had begun growing around the gigantic hole in the ground, marking the diameter better than police tape. He counted years and months back. Four years of growth, mostly unchecked, four years of Peter scheming and planning. Somehow he'd lost and gained more than he could fit in four years, maybe in a lifetime.

Stiles was stuck, torn between feeling like he had become someone else and that he hadn't changed at all.

Peter. Peter's memories. Peter's movements.

Stiles had a deeper appreciation for Lydia's predicament. Christ. Of everyone he could call, she topped the list, and he couldn't do it; not when she was still managing to reconcile with the emptiness Peter had left behind.

"Fuck it."

The length of oak was still in the back of the jeep, and he grabbed it, the unsettling sensation of the damn thing writhing in his hand almost making him drop it again. Ignoring his personal misgivings, he got out of the car and walked out a few feet. The undergrowth was tall, competing with the saplings for height and making sitting uncomfortable as hell. Even having the weight off of his leg didn't feel like an even trade.

A visceral reaction. Deaton's words had been spot on, and Stiles wondered if he was making a mistake.

Knee jerk emotional reactions were becoming a habit, but he was tired of checking each impulse, tired of tiptoeing around everything.

Ignoring the reasonable voice in his head that told him to get back in his car and go back to his dad's, he held the length of oak upright and twisted it a few times in the ground even knowing it wouldn't help. The runes from Lydia's floor became a map behind his eyelids. The spiral was broken, fragmented pieces missing, fallen away. Stiles bridged them, intuitive leaps that left him scrambling as he tried to map out the town within the lines of the currents.

He muttered syllables, sounds that broke over his teeth and lips. His body tightened in anticipation of the pain.

It didn't help, not when he'd planted himself ten yards from the house, the lingering echos reaching out, playing the part he'd given them. Even bracing himself, he still felt like he was going to black out, his vision edged in gray when it hit.

Terror and rage were like adrenaline, his heart beating overtime in his chest, threatening to give out. Anguish chipped at resolve, threatened to shatter the line between what he knew was his and what he wasn't quite so sure of.

Compartmentalization wasn't working, and screw everything, because he'd earned the right to some sanity. He'd said no to Peter years ago, and the bastard was still finding ways to screw with him, winning because he was _still_ sticking around, looming in corners like some sort of hellish disney ghost.

It was easy, suddenly. Easy to be angry, to be furious with Peter, who had dragged Scott, and by proxy, him, into the supernatural world. Like dominoes tipping in a neat row, he was thinking about Kate and her vicious glee and the bastard of a father that had probably made her that way. Towers were falling inside of his skull, Jennifer and her narcissistic vendetta, no better than Peter. Deucalion with his goddamn vanity project and Deaton using his strings pulling everyone along. Derek's life, his life, their fucking life together that wasn't a life anymore, just a culmination of paperwork and things left unsaid.

Peter's agony was dim in comparison the rage Stiles felt coursing through him, quarantining the infection.

The pain faded, and the world was cold and calm. Still.

The runes smoothed out from over his tongue, hung in the air. He followed the spiral out, wider and wider, pulling at the lingering traces of the curse, excising it with the precision and skill of a surgeon.

When he came back to himself, it was still dark outside. His leg ached, but it was his pain. He knew it intimately, knew it was purely his own and not-Not Peter's.

The town seemed less oppressive when he drove back to his dad's house. Crystal clear.

* * *

There was knocking on the door. For the second morning in a row, Stiles turned over on the couch and tried to ignore it.

No one answered the door, and the knocking didn't stop.

Stiles pushed himself up, practically rolled onto the floor before catching himself. Cursing his way to the front door, he peeked through the peephole and bit back the fresh string of oaths that threatened. Allison. Just what he needed at ass o'clock. At least Deaton had come at a reasonable time.

"Hi," He greeted, opening the door. She couldn't have been surprised to see him. His jeep was in the driveway. The undisguised animosity still had the look of something abrupt and uncontrolled.

Her face didn't change. Stiles didn't bother to ask himself why that didn't effect the overall sense of distrust that made him want to slam the door in her face.

"I need to talk to Scott."

Stiles ran a hand over his face. Scott's car was parked in the driveway too. He was in the house, somewhere, and he wouldn't, _couldn't_ have missed the sound of Allison's voice. He'd been hardwired to it since the first time he'd seen her. A silly thing like a breakup wasn't going to change that.

"If he didn't answer the door, it means he doesn't want to talk."

"This is none of your business."

"I'd agree with you, except I'm here trying to sleep, and we both know he's awake upstairs. If he needs time, let him have it."

"He broke up with _us_ ," Allison snapped, as if that somehow justified her demand.

"Yeah and I bet you felt like sunshine and rainbows after splitting with him each time too."

Allison's face colored, a flush pink that made the dark half moons under her eyes stand out that much more. "You do _not_ get to keep throwing my past in my face."

"I actually wasn't trying to," Stiles shrugged, meaning it. It still felt like he was nearing the end of his civility for the encounter, though. "I was trying to point out that you should get that it's not easy for him either."

"And I said it's none of your business."

"If he'd answered the door, it wouldn't have been," He agreed. Despite his attempts to be supportive and to rekindle his relationship with Scott, Allison was always going to be one area of his brother's life he didn't want to deal with. "He didn't. Ergo. Since he's not coming down the stairs, and you very obviously don't want to talk to me, maybe you should leave."

"What did you say to him?"

Stiles immediately understood what she was saying, what she was accusing him of. Scott had gone to Portland and suddenly the relationship was over. If he was being more charitable, he might actually feel sorry for her. But he wasn't up to being charitable. He'd used up all of his humanitarian points opening the door.

"I don't make Scott's decisions for him. When he wants to talk, he'll talk. Until then, give him some space."

He began closing the door when it was pushed in, Allison's hand braced against it.

"Allison, I'm going to ask nicely. Leave."

"I want to talk to Scott."

"Life is full of disappointments." He tried pushing the door closed again. It didn't budge. When he glanced down, Allison's foot was braced against the bottom, heel pressed into the jamb. "I'm really not in the mood for this. Go emote your asshurt to your father. I have better things to do than figure out how many languages I can say 'no' in."

Allison remained fixed in place. Stiles pulled the door back in and then pushed, knowing Allison would move or break something in her foot. When he didn't hear anything on the other side of the door, he figured she'd avoided getting one of her toes broken. The slam of a car door sounded, although there was a distinct lack of squealing tires as it pulled out of the driveway. Stiles silently applauded her restraint.

Scott met him in the kitchen a few minutes later, looking almost normal. There was a dampness around his eyes, but they weren't bloodshot or puffy. Then again, werewolf healing.

"I'm sorry I made you do that."

"No problem," Stiles muttered, staring into his coffee. There was an awkward silence as Scott poured himself a bowl of cereal and leaned against the counter to eat.

"I finished pulling out the curse last night."

Milk splashed onto the floor, and bits of some responsible, fiber rich cereal. Scott sat the bowl on the counter, managing to spill even more as he pulled a dishtowel from the rack and started mopping up the mess with jerky, frantic movements.

"You were hurt yesterday."

"I talked to Deaton, I figured out what was wrong."

"I thought you said we couldn't trust Deaton with your brain."

"He only confirmed what I pretty much knew," Sties said, and it wasn't a lie. Not really. There just hadn't been much time between comprehension and confirmation.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What was wrong?"

"Psychical leftovers from December. I've got a handle on it now. The curse is gone. You'll need another test for Insu."

"If he doesn't run screaming back to San Francisco after meeting my pack, I'll consider him hired," Scott grumbled.

"Your pack doesn't have to meet him. Not everyone has the same relationship with their emissary. Derek didn't know about Deaton."

"And look how well that turned out," Scott muttered, glaring at him.

Stiles held up a hand in defeat. Any argument would dredge up a plethora of unpleasant memories. "I was going to head back today."

"Already?"

"I have a job. Retail. As understanding as Jane is, I just got back from medical leave. I like my job, it makes allowances for things like the full moon and magically induced injuries." And while the pack could easily cover the new expenses for the house -jesus christ and all the dwarves, his electricity bill was through the roof- he needed personal funds.

Scott still looked like someone had kicked his puppy.

"You know you can visit anytime, right?"

Scott's expression morphed into relief. "Thanks. I might take you up on it."

* * *

The house was in a state of discord when he got back, but it was a quiet, simmering sort of turmoil, the kind that told him people had been arguing until he'd pulled into the drive. In the living room, Tim and Annette were squared off against Miles and Payton. Cassie and Matthias were distinctly absent, an oddity if only because Cassie was normally the one in the middle of an argument.

For once, it was Annette that looked ready to rip someone a new one.

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Payton said, glancing over at him.

Kidgloves, again. They were still tiptoeing around him, and Stiles forced the heat blooming in his cheeks to cool.

"Did anybody try to kill anyone else?"

"No," Miles ground out.

"Thanks for keeping everything-" Stiles paused, looking for words that weren't condescending as fuck or inflammatory. "Thanks." He left them like that, walking back to Derek's room and closing the door behind him. The lock snicked in place, and he tossed his duffel on the chair in the corner.

The bed felt too big no matter how he splayed, didn't feel any less empty even as he pretended Cassie wasn't with Matthias and Derek hadn't left.

For the first time since Cassie had moved in and dragged everyone along behind her, the house was silent, echoing like it was empty. Stiles clenched his eyes shut, determined to ignore the sensation that he'd fallen into some hollow shell of the house.

(He dreamed he was in a forest, mist thickening to obscure the outlines of the trees. The ground was etched with runes at his feet, a woven map of them weaving and winding around one another. Fog rolled in like smoke, billowing with heat and obscuring the intricate spell. Stiles saw the world burning slowly, a line of red, nothing more than a spark slowly consuming it and leaving nothing but coal behind.)

* * *

A door slammed, the vibrations rocking through the house. It wasn't the first time it had happened. When Cassie ignored the stairs and landed on the first floor, Stiles counted -four, three, two- and the front door slammed. It was becoming routine. Had become routine, if he was being honest with himself.

"Do I need to ask what that was?" Stiles asked, carefully slicing a bell pepper. His movements had been his for a couple of weeks with no disconcerting changes, but he still knew things, sometimes. Archaic pack laws that were barely ever mentioned had come up more than once with Rick, and the odd bit of celtic woo stuff he hadn't known about, provoked mostly by discussions with Payton. Tolerable. It was _tolerable_ , knowing things he had no reason to know.

"Lover's quarrel, it'll smooth over," Tim murmured from his spot at the table.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, tasted blood. It felt like they were still trying to manage him, walking on eggshells. _Still_. Even though something was very obviously wrong between Cassie and Matthias, no one was telling him anything, acting like the slightest upset would break him. Even Cassie was lying, telling him any number of things that weren't true, glossing over the issue.

Passionflower, belladonna and wolfsbane steeped for three days made a truth serum. The side effects were unpleasant. He had the impression of something that put The Exorcist to shame.

Stiles flinched at the knowledge. Peter's neverending library of cool shit with terrifying implications.

"Okay."

Stiles continued moving, chopping the last few things to go into the stew. Tim still hadn't said anything else when he finished tossing everything into the pot and walked away. It took him a few minutes of fumbling to get his jacket on and shoes. A few more to get out to his workshop and lock the door behind him.

Despite the potentially unethical tidbit, he had a strange empathy for Peter. Peter hadn't been a stereotypical nice guy before his family had burned alive. Stiles sensed enough to know that. But he'd been an average guy, a normal person, werewolf bit aside. He'd cared about people, even loved them. He'd loved his wife and the little girl, the baby that had died of burning to death because she'd been a wolf instead of being allowed to suffocate on smoke like her human mother. A fuck, it was easy to understand how he'd come so completely unhinged.

Once there was nothing but the memory of what had been lost, how it had been lost- Stiles could empathize, knew that Peter had used that cold calm to keep himself grounded because the sorrow would have ripped him apart with every exhalation, every time he didn't say Elise or Avery's names.

Stiles empathized and felt sick for it, for understanding what it was like to lose and for the world to keep turning. He understood what it was like to look around and hate, because everyone continued as if they had a right to exist, to move in the spaces the lost had occupied. Peter would have understood why he was angry, would have had some idea of how to make the pack stop being so cautious and careless.

He was still too scared to try intentionally tapping into what was there, if there was some way what Peter had done could help him handle everything better; wasn't sure whether it made it all better or worse.

* * *

The text on his phone was short and to the point. _Can I stay for a couple of days?_

They weren't even a week away from the full moon. Stiles knew his brother was as aware of that fact as he was, which meant there was a reason for the request.

 _Sure,_ he typed in, hitting send.

 _Thank you._ Simple but sincere. Stiles wondered how bad things were in Beacon Hills that Scott was leaving so close to a full moon.

"We're having a guest," He declared. Everyone in the house would hear it, or tell the ones who didn't.

The reaction was almost instantaneous, a firm knock echoing on his door. Slightly impressed, Stiles walked to his door and opened it. Miles stood on the other side of the threshold, looking ready to murder something. Stiles was pretty sure it wasn't him, or even the result of his declaration. Miles just looked-Edgy, pretty much every time Stiles saw him.

"Not a good time."

"I was unaware, since everyone keeps telling me everything is fine," He drawled sarcastically.

Miles drew in a breath, as if readying the volley. And Stiles was waiting for it, for someone to finally ante up and stop being so goddamn careful with him.

But no dice. At the last minute, the skinwalker exhaled and nodded. "Fine."

He closed the door in Miles' face, silently mouthing several epithets as he locked it.

His tattoo glared at him, the black script full of sharp angles and defined curves. Christ, he'd been such a dumbass. He ground his teeth, blinked back the burn behind his eyelids before squeezing them shut.

Fucking sweater curse. He should have known better. He _had_ known better.

The cold shored up the anger, pushed it back. Calm, calm. Be calm. Breathe.

 _If you're going through hell, keep going._ Morrell had never said whether it stopped or not, though.

Stiles stumbled back, until his knees bent against the back of the bed, until he crumbled and collapsed onto it, chest tight. He felt caught, too much energy and nothing to do with it, no way to move.

 _Breathe_. He dragged in a lungful of air, held it in until he saw black dots blotting out his vision, until his head felt like it was going to explode. _Exhale_.

He thought about the forest, trunks shrouded in fog.

He felt like he was drowning. Every weird dream he'd had, unsure if it was his or Peter's came back, that spot by the ocean where the rocks were like teeth catching the surf, the skeleton framework of cliffs that loomed, some giant creature sleeping. God, and he didn't want to deal with Peter's b.s. anymore, but especially not now. Scrambling, scrabbling and determined, he pushed and pulled the remnants of the dreams apart, tried to remember a time he hadn't had them.

Norway. He'd had the first one in Norway.

Not-Not after. Before, if only by a few weeks.

It helped, marginally, to know that it wasn't Peter's weird, obsessive dream. Stiles rubbed his face, tried to figure out why, when water didn't have good connotations for him. Drowning. Maybe it had been a warning. Maybe his brain had been trying to tell him something and he hadn't picked up on it.

Maybe he was just losing his mind.

He was still staring at the ceiling when someone knocked on the door, quiet, respectful taps. Payton then, or Tim.

"Hey, pack meeting," A voice said, muffled through the wood. Tim. "Cassie says we need to talk."

Stiles groaned as he got up, felt his knee pop, a jolt of pain in his leg. Tim was already gone when he opened the door, and Stiles moved through the hall, saw the doors to all of the rooms closed. Something else different. He couldn't remember closing doors for years, not unless there was the rare need for a private moment.

The hall felt claustrophobic for it, tiny and dark. He almost stumbled trying to get down the stairs too quickly.

Everyone was already waiting in the living room when he stepped into the unnatural silence. Cassie and Matthias were both standing, obviously ready to make some sort of announcement. Stiles sat down next to Payton and leaned back, preparing himself for an argument about Scott's visit.

"The judge is denying my claim," Matthias began. "The advocate at the consulate feels that it would be easier for me to return home before I'm deported, and come back with everything-" He paused, searching for the right words. "In order."

Stiles nodded, felt tension rising around him. "I'm sorry dude." What else was there to say? He'd tried, had gone to Rick, had apparently tried pulling strings at the consulate, and it hadn't worked. Maybe doing it on his own terms and not getting thrown out of the country would help.

"That's not all," Cassie began, expression-Christ, she looked like she wasn't even there, mentally. One thousand miles away and counting. "Because of my control, and how unstable everything's been lately-" She trailed off, still looking like she was staring at something that wasn't even in the room. "We both got tickets back."

Denial, so fast and hot it was dizzying, swept through him. His vision grayed out, the world falling away until he was hanging suspended, positive he was going to fall in to that black hole below his feet.

Cassie wouldn't leave him. Cassie wouldn't-Not now, not-

 _Fuck_. That's what everyone had been hiding. Because you couldn't keep secrets in a house full of supernatural creatures. They'd all _known_ -

Except people were yelling, the sounds sharp and dissonant as they rose higher and higher, echoed and pitched through the room. Annette was in her sister's face, waving an angry, clawed finger. He wasn't sure he'd ever even seen Annette so pissed off before. Miles was on his feet, speaking to Matthias with harsh, guttural sounds, and Tim was pacing, still completely human save for his eyes, luminescent gold and angry.

Stiles felt a hand on his shoulder, turned and saw Payton staring at him with concern, and maybe a little pity. But no guilt.

They hadn't known, not about Cassie leaving. Maybe that things were going south, but not-They hadn't been hiding it from him.

And Cassie- He felt the anger there, the helplessness. The goddamn abandonment issues between the two of them, enough to give a therapist pause. But she was leaving. Might as well have already left, for all that they'd spoken in the past weeks. Yelling wasn't going to change a thing. And if he couldn't change it-

He got to his feet. "All of you, listen."

He didn't have to speak loudly, didn't have to shout. The entire room went quiet, stilling and turning to focus on him. It was unnerving, anger, frustration, desperation, all focused on him. He felt it, knew they were looking to him for some sort of resolution, because he was the closest they had to a fixed point. Christ. He was a fixed point, like Derek had been for him.

He ruthlessly shoved the sensation of betrayal to the back of his mind. Another thing to just box up and shove down deep.

"Cas has to do what's right for her. We all knew this was going to be difficult. But we'll handle it." He would handle it.

Cassie actually whimpered, and he ignored the bitter, hot flash of anger because she was the one leaving him. He wasn't forcing her to go.

Everyone else was staring at him like he'd lost his mind.

"We're not going to argue about this."

"Stiles-" Annette started. Stiles shook his head.

"I'm going to be in my workshop."

It was an explicit command to be left alone. No one followed him outside, but he did hear the arguing pick up the moment the front door closed behind him. Giving it up, because there was no way in hell he could manage to referee anything involving a pissed off Miles and Cassie, he embraced the twinging pain in his leg. It was one of the few grounds he had left, something he was sure of being entirely his own without the need to second guess it.

Once inside his workshop, he closed and locked the door behind him and turned the heater on.

Fuck. Cassie was leaving. With _Matthias_.

Goddammit. Stiles moved, heard the snap of fabric in the air when his arms flailed once because he'd never expected Cas to leave him for her fucking soulmate.

He knew it wasn't a fair comparison, that Cassie was finding an anchor in Matthias and she needed that anchor, especially with Derek gone. But she was finding comfort in a dude when shit hit the proverbial fan, like Scott had needed Allison instead of turning to him. Like Scott had needed the pack more than him.

There it was, that bared nerve, scraped raw and sensitive. He'd almost, _almost_ forgotten about it, been convinced that he was over it, that he even sort of understood it. But Cassie and Matthias-

And Derek.

It felt inevitable, the conclusion where everyone left, where everyone realized how dumb they'd all been, banking on Derek coming back. Derek wasn't coming back. Cassie must have realized it, must know it, even if she wasn't saying anything about it, like no one was saying it. Otherwise she wouldn't be leaving. She wouldn't _need_ to leave. Eventually the others would realize it too.

Stiles moved through his workroom, the one Derek had built for him, like some sort of-Of something. He'd taken it as a sign, maybe. That Derek had been invested in the future, that he'd believed in a future.

He opened one of the goddamn boxes Derek had made for him and pulled out a piece of chalk. The box clattered on the wooden shelf, clicked shut too loudly in the silence. Ignoring the fact that the concrete was still cold despite the heater, that the cold felt like wet seeping through the denim of his jeans, he sat down and stared at the open gray expanse.

The lines of his tattoo started, began weaving in and out of one another. It had only been a few months since he'd drawn it, utterly sure it was 'right'. Amund had called it a map. Meaning upon meaning stacked, blended into the linework.

What was he going to do once they were all gone? Once they accepted the inevitable, he wouldn't have any reason to stay. He wouldn't have anything except a house that felt like it didn't belong to him, like he didn't belong in it. When it was all said and done, he didn't belong in Portland, and he didn't belong in Beacon Hills.

He stared down at the rendering of his tattoo, searching for what Amund had seen. There had to be a future there, somewhere. It was all about choice, wasn't it? Derek's choice to run away, Cassie's choice to find something stable, his choice to do something. Somewhere there was a choice he could make. Should make.

The longer he looked, the less he saw, the entirety of the pattern but a tangle of incomprehensible lines.

* * *

Stiles gaped, a thoughtless obscenity tumbling out of his mouth before he could think better of it.

Scott was standing on his front porch, bag slung over his shoulder. At Stiles' muttered expletive, his shoulders hunched and he looked even worse than he had before.

"Should I-I mean, should I go?" Scott asked, stepping back and turning, as if ready to leave that second, no explanation required.

"No dude, it's fine." It wasn't. "Just, things got really crazy here yesterday and I forgot-It's fine. Come on in."

"Stiles, if you need me to go-"

"You don't need to go."

"Stiles, if it's that bad I can go to back-"

"Why would you go to back?"

Scott looked at him like he'd lost his mind, which was fair. Stiles knew he'd probably do the same if their situations had been reversed. But it would be okay. If nothing else, he could stonewall the others. Miles had said it was his house, right? Which meant he could make decisions concerning guests.

"I don't-I need someone to keep me, you know."

"I don't know. Magic, not psychic," Stiles reminded him.

Scott's expression soured. "I'm not fully connected with my anchor. I need-I mean I don't know how I'm going to-I don't know if I'll be safe," He stuttered out, face red with mortification. Or shame. Or both. Stiles could definitely see both.

He mentally went through his catalog of four letter words, each one resounding in his head in Peter Hale's voice. Scott hadn't come for a friendly visit. He'd come to be jailed on the full moon. He'd come to a house full of unstable supernatural creatures to be bound up and made helpless. Because _somehow_ that had struck his brother as the better option.

Stiles didn't say that his life had become a prime example of Sod's Law in action, but the temptation was there.

"My workshop will be safe." It wouldn't be hard to ward it. He could even test out the anti-Minchian wards. Not that Payton would push, but Stiles was curious if his alterations to the typical kelpie wards would work.

Scott relaxed, relief making him look older instead of younger. "Thanks man. I don't want to hurt anyone, but I don't trust Deaton, you know? And Insu- I mean he's pretty awesome, but I don't _trust_ trust him yet. Not with this."

"I feel you," Stiles said, understanding just about everything, except the fact that Scott was chancing himself in a house full of shapeshifters that very obviously didn't like him on the full moon. Somehow he putting him on the couch wasn't an option.

Letting him sleep in his room though-Also not an option.

"So the whole house is pretty much off the rails because Matthias is about to get deported and Cassie's going with him." He almost lamented the fact that the band aid method never made him feel as good as he thought it would. Scott certainly wasn't looking at him like he'd done him any favors.

"Dude-"

"Cassie and Matthias are at Caroline's until she leaves." And that had been a bitch of a revelation when he'd walked in that morning, Miles dropping the bomb over coffee and asking if he needed someone to stick around. He hadn't. "You can have her bed." Someone was going to kill him. Given Annette's recent displays of aggression, it was probably going to be her. Being murdered by the sweetest member of Caroline's family wasn't how he'd planned to go, but it beat getting mauled by a pissed off Miles.

" _Dude_."

Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The cold damp reached through his jacket and jeans, rolled down his neck. Bracing. When he opened his eyes again, Scott looked as concerned as he had before. "Scott, this is my house. You're my brother, and you need help. Help that I can give. You're welcome here."

"I-Thanks." Scott didn't look like he was sure whether or not he meant it, and Stiles didn't try to figure it out, instead pushing his brother inside and closing the door behind him, feeling calm again, better than he had since Cassie had dropped the bomb the night before. He had something to do, something genuinely useful.

"Chilli should be done by now."

"It smells really good?" Scott offered, making it sound like a question.

"I'll show you the room." Cassie's room, which hadn't suited her. It wouldn't suit Scott. He doubted Scott would even be able to sleep in it. But the moon was close enough, maybe he could set up a cot in the workshop. The illusion of some sort of hospitality aside from a cot and a space heater was probably for the best. Maybe.

The room was-Empty. The furniture was there, but everything else was gone. Clothing, pictures, the things Cassie had considered important enough to bring over on that first day, all the things she couldn't bear to put in the attic.

It felt permanent.

"I'll go grab some fresh sheets. Sorry if the mattress reeks of wolf sex."

Scott mumbled something under his breath, and Stiles decided he didn't want to hear whatever it was.

The linen closet was beyond bursting, everyone bringing their own linens and throwing them in the wash instead of boxing them up and putting them in the attic. Somewhere beneath it all were the original linens, the ones he and Derek had bought for themselves, the hand me down quilts Caroline had given them and Cassie had sneaked over.

He grabbed some sheets he hoped would fit and a couple of pillows before nearly causing an avalanche reaching for the pillowcases.

Scott was staring out of the window, hands jammed in his pockets.

"When will the others get back?"

"Annette and Tim should have been back by now, but they're probably at Caroline's," Stiles lied. Somehow he doubted either of them would want to be near Cassie and Matthias. Or if they were, it was to argue some more. "Miles and Payton will get back when they get back. Perks of owning your own business."

"Oh."

"Hungry?"

"Sure."

Stiles spun on his heel, needing some space from the abandoned bedroom and the sight of Scott in it.

His brother followed him downstairs and into the kitchen, watched him moving through the room and preparing a bowl of chilli.

"You okay?"

Stiles glanced up from ladling chilli into a bowl. One bowl, he wasn't hungry.

"So, stupid question," Scott admitted.

"I'm handling it."

There was an indeterminate pause that made Stiles nervous. He handed the bowl over and put the lid back on the slow cooker, tossed the ladle into the sink.

"You're-Yeah."

There was a scathing remark just readying itself, but Stiles bit it back. Scott was obviously having enough problems on his own, and Stiles knew he was worried. It would have been nice to be worried about at some other point, but-Not anymore. Not after two months of being treated like a fragile flower. It was obnoxious.

"So what's going on with Insu? Is he official yet?"

"Yeah dude," Scott said, smiling like a puppy and latching onto the new subject. Stiles pictured him with a tail, knew it would be wagging. "Well, almost. He's swearing in or whatever on the new moon. He's managed to line up a position at the school too! Mrs. Collins is retiring at the end of the year, so he's taking over APUSH next fall. Until then he's subbing."

"Awesome."

"He's really cool, you know? He talks to me, and explains things without having to be asked constantly. It's not like it was with Deaton."

Stiles nodded, chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Is he coming from a coven, or did his charges-" Stiles waved a hand. There were only a few ways emissaries were freed up for new packs. The death of their charges was the most common.

"He was released."

"Seriously?" Released emissaries typically became cautionary tales. Deaton hadn't been lying about them having a hard time of it in the world.

Scott nodded, looking solemn. "He was the emissary for a clan of haetae. But when he met his wife, they told him to give her up or get out."

"That's-Really harsh. I've never heard of anyone doing that." He didn't know anything about haetae, but he'd never heard of an emissary not being allowed to get married. They weren't monks.

"It's because she's a kitsune."

Oh. That made-Slightly more sense. Humans might be allowed, or even someone within the clan. But another creature was probably some sort of ethical breach. He'd make a point to ask Rick.

"He's been neutral for years, but he likes Beacon Hills, so-" Scott shrugged. "His wife's pretty intense though. She came up after he did and grilled me."

"If I remember correctly, foxes and wolves don't exactly get along."

"Yeah well," Scott shrugged again. "She's not really interested in the pack or interacting. The relationship is pretty much with Insu and that's it."

Huh. He couldn't recall if kitsune even had a hierarchy. Not that he'd heard of, but he hadn't heard of many kitsune floating around the United States to begin with. Most of them preferred traveling, from what he'd gathered. Always on the move, wandering.

"And they have a daughter. She's going to SFAI, for illustration or something. I think he's becoming an emissary for her. He made it sound like it's been hard for her, his past putting her on some sort of blacklist."

"Having a true alpha's backing would keep everyone else off her back. All of them, actually."

"You think?"

Stiles nodded, still turning the information over in his mind. "Yeah. I'd be looking forward to polite inquiries in the future. If she's living in claimed territory, someone's going to be talking to you." It was doubtful she was, but with new connections she would be able to.

"Would that make them pack?"

"Only if they oath," Stiles murmured, suppressing the flash of anger that tried to burn through him at the thought. Oaths. Something else he didn't need to think about. "But as your emissary, he gets perks. They extend to her unless she disowns or joins someone's group."

"Not happening," Scott chuckled. "She's a total daddy's girl from the sound of it. Or the other way around. It's like when your dad talks about you. He really-Yeah."

Stiles refused to reexamine the envy. He and Scott had hashed it out years ago, when Scott had wanted a dad that actually cared and Stiles had just wanted his mom back. "She take after him?"

"He said she takes after her mom."

"So a kitsune?"

"Yeah."

"You meet the most interesting people."

"You live with a sea unicorn and a dude that turns into an actual grizzly bear."

"Not in the house," He murmured. He actually hadn't seen Miles shift since Beacon Hills and he had no idea hat Payton looked like when he shifted, only that Peter's memories were sure he could. "When did you want to start doing the thing?"

"Tonight. It was pretty bad yesterday."

"How'd you manage last night?"

"I tazed myself when I felt too tense."

For a minute Stiles was convinced he'd swallowed his tongue. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Uh, no?"

"Oh my god," Stiles groaned into his palm. Scott looked both confused and embarrassed. Stiles almost laughed, nostalgic fondness quirking his lips into a grin. The Great True Alpha of Beacon Hills, his mind supplied, with fanfare and trumpeting. His brother. "Scott, tazing yourself is never the answer."

"I didn't know what else to do," Scott whined, shoulders slumping. Stiles decided to take some mercy. It had been done with good intentions, at least.

"Okay. Okay. I get it. But we're sticking with wards this time. No electricity."

"Thank god," Scott muttered. "I was scared I was gonna wet myself last night."

Stiles choked on the laugh that bubbled up even as Scott's face turned bright red, the same flush he wore any time he said something he hadn't meant to.

Payton found them laughing, well, Stiles was laughing, Scott was pouting, in the kitchen.

"Alpha McCall," He greeted, his only nod to etiquette before he pulled a bowl down from the cabinet and searched for a new ladle. "Miles probably won't come home tonight. Rush order."

Stiles knew it was code for 'epically pissed off' and nodded, not at all ashamed of the surge of gratitude the declaration evoked. One less person to deal with, and Miles was the most aggressively honest aside from Cassie.

"So what brings you up north?"

"Supernatural babysitter," Scott said, shrugging. As if it wasn't a big deal to admit weakness to someone he barely knew. "I got tired of tazing myself."

"I'd ask but-" Payton shook his head, smirking. "No. Pretty sure I'm better off not knowing."

"He's crashing in the workshop for a couple of days," Stiles supplied, trusting Payton to connect the dots.

"I'll talk to Miles and Tim."

"How's Annette?" Stiles ventured cautiously.

"Glad I don't live at the Valdyr residence today," Payton snorted. "It's always the quiet ones you have to watch out for."

"Seriously," Scott said. "I can stay somewhere else."

"It's not as bad as Beacon Hills was," Payton declared, shrugging. "And everyone's too busy being pissed off at Cassie to be pissed at you."

"Best endorsement ever, I feel so welcome," Scott replied with false cheer and an added bounce for effect.

" _Now_ I can see how you two are brothers," Payton said, finishing his bowl and dropping it in the sink. "I'll go call Miles, then try for some shut eye."

"This early?"

"No one got to bed before three last night, and unlike some people, I have to be up for work at five," Payton said as he rounded the corner, his voice drifting behind him.

When Stiles looked back at Scott, Scott was staring at him with something that could be called pity.

"Don't do that absurd shit with your eyes," Stiles groaned. "It makes me feel like I've taken you out back to shoot you. Come on, I need to move some crap around if there's going to be enough space for you out there."

* * *

Scott examined the intersecting, blurred lines of chalk that Stiles had ignored when making the boundary. Stiles watched, for want of anything better to do. Scott was little more than a shadow, the light of the moon barely filtering in through the lone window. For a minute Stiles considered turning on one of the lights and decided against it.

"I keep thinking about the sacrifice lately," Scott admitted, a claw moving to trace one of the lines.

Stiles hummed noncommittally, watched his brother trace out a rune, oblivious to what he was sketching out. He felt the one on his back, knew exactly where it was. It felt invasive, almost, like Scott was examining his skin.

"Would you break my connection to the nemeton?"

"No."

"You didn't even think about it." Scott's eyes were red, phosphorescent in the shadows. The words had been nothing less than an accusation.

"You don't want it, believe me. Especially not right now."

"How do you know?"

Stiles had wondered what Scott meant by 'worse'. It didn't take much to realize what worse was going to be, that it was probably only just beginning. The low grade rumbling in Scott's chest sounded repressed, the sign of restraint.

It could only go downhill.

"I almost didn't make it back."

"But I'm a werewolf," Scott muttered, almost sullen, almost angry, but not quite managing either. "I heal."

"I'm not talking about the physical damage. There was-I was in the place the nemeton was. The white room." And Stiles hated thinking about that place, the cold that had followed him, his wet feet slapping on the tile of a place that shouldn't have existed, might not have; wondering if Scott and Allison had even been real or just echos in his psyche. "It was a void. I had something to pull me away from it. You don't."

Because if Scott couldn't even trust his anchor with his shift, there was no way it could bring him out of limbo.

"You could help me."

"I don't know _how_."

"But you could figure it out."

"No."

"You can't make this decision for me," Scott ground out.

"Executive decision. I'm not participating, so you're sort of fucked," Stiles snapped. "Be thankful."

Scott barked out a laugh, a mirthless, bitter sound that grated in Stiles' ears. "Thankful? Seriously?"

"The scar is easier."

"You're just saying that because Derek's not here to help you," Scott scoffed.

"And you're here why again?" Stiles reminded him, the words coming out even though he knew they were wrong, knew they would only goad Scott. But it was the first time anyone had deliberately prodded the open wound, and it was almost relieving to have someone, even Scott, tell him he was an idiot. Viciously, he wondered if Scott needed the same, if they were both stuck in the hell that was other people's good intentions.

"At least I didn't make someone that always leaves my anchor," Scott snarled, on his feet and palming the air, caught on the barrier. It looked ridiculously like he was miming a wall, except it wasn't funny. "You always trust the wrong people."

"Yes," Stiles bit out sarcastically. "Of the two of us _I'm_ the one with a track record of trusting the wrong people."

"I'm trying to be better," Scott declared, somehow turning what should have been a defensive statement into something else entirely. "What are you doing besides wallowing?"

Realization hit, unwelcome and chilling. Nothing was going to be solved by baiting Scott, neither of them would feel better for it in the morning, even if tearing open the wounds felt like release. Temporary, it was only the difference that made it feel like something better when it wasn't. Stiles bit his tongue, closed his eyes and fought the impulse to lash out. Somewhere he knew his brother was as lost as he was, and that neither of them would survive an entire night of verbally ripping eachother apart. 

"You always want the people that leave, you can never be happy with what you have. God it's just like your mom all over again-"

And that was the imaginary line in the sand, the one Stiles would back down from every time, made even worse because Scott knew it. He scrambled for the doorknob, flinging himself out into the cold night air and slamming the door behind him.

_Deep breaths._

Scott's voice carried through the door, accusations and vitriol barely muffled by the wood.

Miles made a point of making noise as he walked over. Stiles stared ahead, out into the forest and didn't ask if Miles had been listening for him, why Miles was even home when Payton had said he'd be at the shop all night.

"Want me to knock him out?"

For all that it sounded like a lighthearted joke, Stiles had a feeling Miles was itching, craving violence, and he didn't know how to mitigate his temper, how to make it better, if he should even try. "Appreciated, but no."

"You need someone else to take over?"

"He's not going anywhere."

"Then why are you here, listening to this?"

Because he was a masochist at heart, obviously. "He could hurt himself."

"It'll heal," Miles snorted, not looking the least bit impressed with the excuse. _Explanation_.

"He's my brother." And he'd only made it worse, as per usual. Knee jerk visceral reaction. At least this time it had been his. It was bitter comfort in the face of what was waiting for him.

An angry, resigned sound got caught in Miles' throat, his arms crossing his chest as he shook his head. "Fine. If you need anything-" The offer trailed off, lingered in the cold air between them.

"I won't."

"If you do," Miles reminded him, already turning on his heel. He was quieter as he walked away, hands jammed in his pockets.

The words filling the workshop and filtering out had only grown louder. Stiles took a deep breath. _Keep going._

When he stepped back inside, Scott was caught between a beta and alpha shift, still perfectly able to form words around his fangs.

Scott didn't stop, and Stiles didn't try to make him. First there were accusations, then taunts. Begging followed, giving way to tears. Stiles watched, feeling curiously disconnected, dissociated from the room, from himself. Scott was an abstract, the words and tears, the clawed fingertips digging into the floor and disrupting the lines of the tattoo, the snot and blood, all sinking in and, finding nothing, filling the empty space. Sight and words and scent crowded in his head, and he wasn't sure he actually understood any of it.

When Scott finally wore himself out, his chest heaving and face still wet from tears, Stiles got up and left him alone in the workshop. The moon had already completed it's descent, but the sun had yet to rise, the world caught between the two, hazed in the gray blue of predawn. The air was cold, actually felt purer for it as it worked it's way into his lungs.

The house was quiet when he walked inside, everyone asleep or pretending to be.

Ignoring the self preservation instincts that warned him against making coffee so early, he went through the motions, eyes drawn in the direction of the workshop. Scott was still out there, probably asleep, recharging from his meltdown.

He knew Scott would never say-Any number of the things he had under the moon's influence. He probably wouldn't even think them without feeling like some sort of monster. But they had been said. Scott hadn't pulled any punches, and Stiles wondered if maybe that was what family did, sometimes, used eachother as emotional punching bags when things got out of control. Because family was supposed to understand, to still be there after it was over.

He didn't feel 'understanding', didn't feel like he'd earned it from Scott either. He felt like he was slowly coming back to himself in an empty house with no one to keep him from shaking apart as the buzzing in his head grew louder and more violent.

The coffee pot hissed. Stiles shuddered, a draft whispering across the back of his neck. The smell of coffee turned his stomach, and the thought of anything warm clashed against the chill in his bones, made him feel sick to his stomach. He fled upstairs to his room and stripped, stumbled into the shower and blasted cold water over his skin to banish the heat.

 _Keep going._ That was his job now. He shuddered under the water, let it clear his head. The ache of too much energy inside him, too many words and echos, dimmed into a low pulse. When it was an echo, subdued into something less dangerous, he turned the water off and got out.

He was aware there were only so many ways to handle the situation, and of those, only one that wouldn't end with quiet hostility. It wasn't appetizing, but it was the only real answer.

He got dressed, pulling on clothing that he was sure was his own, and walked past the closed doors. The hall still felt too small, empty, for all that he knew people were sleeping on the other sides of the doors.

It wasn't until he was back in the workshop that he wished he'd grabbed a mug of coffee, if only for something to do with his hands. The need to twitch, to fiddle and tug at the sleeves of his plaid shirt was overwhelming in the face of Scott awake and standing, fists hanging by his sides, knuckles white.

He looked wrecked, in a way he hadn't when Stiles had seen him in Beacon Hills. He looked up, then down, eyes shying away from Stiles' form. Even with his face tilted down to stare at the floor, dejection was written in the worried lines of his forehead and the tense line of his jaw. Stiles realized it looked like Scott was readying himself for some sort of physical blow.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it."

"I get it," Stiles murmured in a voice that didn't hint at much of anything. After his shower it felt easier to say the words, some clinically detached part of himself knowing they were the right words. "You've got a lot on your plate."

"That's not-I didn't mean-" Scott fumbled, actually making himself even smaller despite the reprieve.

"I get it dude," Stiles repeated, clinging to the sense of disassociation, ignoring the ache he knew was waiting. "We've got a lot of shit in our heads, especially concerning eachother. It's not going to just go away. I shouldn't have goaded you."

"You didn't," Scott insisted. "I had no right to say those things. I was trying to hurt you, and it all-I didn't mean any of it. It was wrong of me to do that just because you said no. I know better than to ask you to do it. I'm so sorry. None of it- I'm sorry."

"Having an answer to the darkness issue sucks, and you're handling a lot of other stuff too." He didn't offer what he knew Scott wanted to hear. It would be a lie, and Scott would know, would feel even worse for the attempted deception. Just like Scott wouldn't be able to honestly tell him what he'd said was remotely alright, for the little he had said.

Scott didn't bother moving when Stiles broke the line.

"Why aren't you mad at me?"

"There's no point." And there wasn't, even if yelling would make Scott feel like he'd at least gotten some form of deserved punishment. It would just continue whatever hellish cycle they were in, and there was nothing to actually be gained from giving in to the angry buzzing in the back of his head.

"Full moons are movie nights for us, but I'll come back outside after it's over," He added.

"Stiles-" Scott started, then stopped.

"Caroline said it's cool to explore the city, if you want, but don't go into the forest today. I need to go get ready for work." He'd be early, but Jane would need the extra help, most likely. They were shorthanded now.

Scott didn't try to follow him.

* * *

"Door," Tim said from his spot on the couch. Stiles blinked, half out of it while attempting to maintain the impression that he was interested in the foreign film Annette had insisted on.

"Someone's at the front door."

Stiles got up from the couch, relieved to get away from the steady drone of spanish and the oppressive misery the group channeled. No one tried to follow him, and he rubbed his face, tired in the same way he'd been tired for two months. Knowing Scott was outside, waiting for him to come out after the movie finished only seemed to make it more pronounced, his eyes dry and vision blurry.

Which was why he opened the door and it didn't immediately register that Issac was the one standing there.

_Issac was standing at the door._

A fresh wash of adrenaline made his heart skitter in his chest, fatigue gone in an abrupt haze of panic and rage.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Stiles snarled, slamming the door behind him and crowding Issac away from it. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I need to see Scott," Issac said, hugging himself. "I'll speak to Derek if I need to. Just-Please. I need to see Scott."

"You'll speak to me and tell me what's so fucking important you waltzed into another pack's territory on the night of the full moon," Stiles hissed.

"I tried calling but Scott's phone went to voicemail and no one would give me yours. I tried," Issac repeated, frustrated and forlorn. Stiles almost expected him to stamp his feet, though Issac refrained from it by shifting restlessly.

"How did you even know where I lived?"

"I looked up the Valdyrs address. Scott mentioned you lived on their land. I tried to get here during the day and I got turned around looking for this place until I smelled Scott. Please let me see him."

"No, no way. I can't believe you thought this was a good idea."

"I'm losing my alpha," Issac said, the words coming out like he'd been punched in the stomach. Stiles gaped.

"Dude, Scott's not leaving you. Just because you guys aren't sleeping together doesn't mean he's going to abandon you."

"I haven't had a moon with him since November, and we haven't run, we've barely spoken. Stiles, he's still my alpha. I need to see him."

Stiles almost mentioned Beacon Hills, and what a raging dick Issac had been when he and Derek had been falling apart. It would be so easy to just push him away, get him out and not deal with it. It wasn't his problem to deal with.

"I'll talk to Derek, if I need to. I'm sorry. Look, I swear, I'm sorry about how I was. I, please, just let me see Scott," Issac stuttered out, insecure again, like he'd been _back then_. Insecure and braced for whatever abuse someone threw his way.

Fuck. Stiles looked around, listened for the signs of the others coming out. Nothing. That or they were waiting just inside the door. In fact he was positive they were all standing on the other side of the door, waiting to follow his cue.

"I'm going to ask Scott if it's okay, and you will comply with whatever he says, no arguments." He was going to regret it, he knew he was going to regret it. He wondered if it was how Derek had felt, that first time he'd shown up out of the blue, uninvited and on the edge of breaking. Guilty and somehow inherently responsible, neither feeling doing anything to mitigate the sensation of inevitable fallout.

Issac nodded, shaggy curls bouncing.

"Stay here. I mean it," Stiles said, walking past him and down the steps, out to the workshop. When he opened the door, Scott was staring at it.

"Yes or no?"

"Stiles," Scott began. "I'm sorry, I didn't think he'd try following me, especially not after-" Scott stopped, looking helpless.

"It sounds like he needs his alpha, not a boyfriend. So again, yes or no?" He demanded, recognizing the sensation of his own resentment, his own rage making his words sharp and short. Even recognizing it, it was difficult to reign in it, to keep his heart and hands steady.

Scott ran a hand over his face, then shrugged. "Okay." It sounded like he was giving in more than anything.

"You want out or to stay in here?"

"Are you okay with him being in here?"

Stiles bit back the immediate yes that would have come out, once. Maybe even a few weeks ago. But-

"He can come in. Do you want me to break the circle?"

Scott shook his head. "I still don't trust myself right now," He admitted. "And things might get-tense."

"Alright. Issac, get over here."

Issac loped over, crunching dead leaves beneath his feet. There was no attempt at stealth or subtlety.

"Ground rules," Stiles informed them. "That circle stays until morning. Period. I'm going to complete the border at the door so no one can get in."

"You're locking us in?" Issac demanded incredulously. "We haven't done anything!"

"Issac," Scott bit out, the rumble of an alpha rolling through the name and making Issac flinch.

"You came into another wolf's territory on the full moon and I'm the only one that gets why," Stiles bit out. "I'm keeping everything else _out_. I'll get you guys in the morning."

Issac nodded again. Stiles heaved a sigh. "And please don't go poking around in here. There's a lot of shit that'll kill you."

He didn't bother waiting for any sort of response before grabbing the box of ash kept next to the door and tossing a handful across the entrance. The door slammed shut behind him, echoing as he stalked back towards the house.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Payton asked from his spot on the porch.

"Because we're all about good decision making skills lately," Stiles muttered, stalking up the stairs.

"Hey," Payton said, grabbing his shoulder. Stiles shrugged it off.

"Look, my brother needs his pack, and it might help. If that's a problem for you, fuck off."

"It's not a problem for me and the others should be able to deal. Are _you_ okay?"

"I'm handling it," Stiles said, wishing he could just go back to his bed and go the fuck to sleep. Christ. "Although if any more wayward wolves show up, you have my permission to trample them or whatever." There was no one on the other side of the door. Either they'd booked it back to the living room or gone to their rooms to sulk. And he was actually too exhausted to care.

"I'm not a horse, Stiles," Payton snorted, following him inside.

"Then use one of the guns, or knives, or my bat," Stiles groaned. "I don't care. I'm going up to my room."

"Get some sleep," Payton commanded, as if that hadn't been exactly what Stiles had been planning on doing. "I'll keep an ear out for the workshop and wake you up if anything happens."

"Thanks man," Stiles said, then paused. "Sorry about being a dick."

"As opposed to how you're not the rest of the time?" Payton asked, all mock innocence.

Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes. "Fair. Night."

He didn't bother undressing before he curled up in the center of the bed, trying not to think about Scott and Issac in the workshop, finding stability with one another. It was an abysmal failure, bitterness riding on the coattails of envy.

(In his dreams he was falling through Lydia's floor, though the cobweb fine lines that had kept him suspended over the abyss. Derek was caught, tangled up in the strands, Cassie trying to cut him free with her claws and failing.)

* * *

Issac was stretched out on the floor next to the barrier, legs splayed and hands under his head. Scott was curled along the line of the barrier, as if he'd tried to remain close to Issac even in sleep.

"Morning," Stiles said, staring down at them.

Issac startled awake, Scott following a moment later. Stiles was more surprised he'd managed to catch them unawares.

"Morning," Scott yawned, getting to his feet. He actually looked better than he had the morning before, though it wouldn't have taken much. He wasn't wearing the cloak of shame that had weighted him down. If anything, he looked almost peppy, content even. Issac stood, looking stiff and uncomfortable.

"Thank you," Issac blurted, sounding as ill at ease as he looked.

Stiles ignored the general sense of contentment radiating from Scott's corner, inhaled and nodded. "Look, I know you don't want to hear this, especially from me. But there are rules for a reason. Don't go into another wolf's territory on a full moon, not unless you have explicit permission from the alpha. I know you were running on instinct, but there are other people with the same instincts. I don't think you understand how wrong last night could have gone."

Issac nodded stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I spoke to Caroline this morning." And that conversation had been _so much fun_. Stiles hadn't appreciated how much Caroline liked her mornings in the barn until she'd been growling into the phone. "She wants to see both of you asap."

"We're going to be punished?" Issac demanded. "But-"

"I have no clue what's going to happen," Stiles interrupted, holding his hands up in a placating gesture he didn't particularly mean. "I'm pretty sure she's going to verbally reprimand you and then tell you to get the hell out of dodge. Both of which are completely normal under the circumstances. You're allies, so she shouldn't be too hard on you." Probably. She hadn't exactly been thrilled, but he doubted she was happy with much of anything lately.

"You coming with?" Scott asked, shoving his feet into his shoes.

"I've got work," Stiles demurred, thanking god for the excuse to stay away from the house. He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle seeing Cassie. It was her shift he was covering, after all.

"Is it okay to go grab my things?" Scott asked, flicking his gaze in the direction of the house.

"The others went out for breakfast, house is empty." Stiles suspected they were avoiding him as much as they were avoiding Scott and Issac.

Scott left him alone with Issac, standing in the middle of the workshop like they were still in highschool, unable to talk to each other.

"Scott said- I-" Issac fumbled, arms shifting, tensing across his chest. "He told me the same thing last night, about following him. And that you were keeping us safe. Thank you."

Stiles resisted the temptation to call him on the very obviously painful show of gratitude. "You don't have any reason to like me, I get that. But I don't want anything bad to happen to him. I never have." He knew Issac would be able to hear the truth in the beat of his heart, spoke slowly so it would register.

"I guess I still don't get it, even after what he told me. Why you would choose Derek and not Scott."

"In another life, it could have been Scott," Stiles admitted slowly, thinking about everything Scott had said under the influence of the moon. "It just didn't work out that way in this one."

"You two-" Issac paused, chagrined. "You two always had some sort of weird thing. Boyd-" His voice hitched, the name dragging out between them. "We used to make fun of it."

It felt like an olive branch. Stiles considered it carefully. That it was about Derek made it difficult, if only because he didn't want to think about Derek, didn't want Issac of all people talking about him.

But it would help Scott, who needed all the help he could get. Stiles wondered if it was what personal growth felt like.

"We were in scorn with each other back then," He agreed, deliberately keeping his tone light.

Issac barked on a laugh, actually looking surprised with himself, like it had been a slip against his better judgment. "No one's ever put it that way, but it actually sounds about right."

Fake it till you make it, Stiles reminded himself. "So you're still in school? I thought you'd have gone through the academy by now."

"Decided not to go for law enforcement," Issac informed him, smiling. "Nurse."

"You'd rock some baby animal scrubs."

"I want to work on the peds ward," Issac said, coloring slightly. "With kids."

"See. Perfect."

It wasn't, but it felt a little easier, maybe. He didn't feel the urge to break Issac's nose anymore, at least. Scott bounced back in, his bag slung over his shoulder and beaming. Stiles figured he'd heard at least part of the conversation.

"Shoot a buzz when you get back."

"Will do," Scott said, giving him a one armed hug. Stiles was inordinately proud he didn't flinch. "Be safe man."

"Sure thing."

There was no attempt at a hug on Issac's part, but there was a hesitant, light handshake before they loaded into their cars. Stiles watched them pull away, down the drive until they disappeared from view, exhaust lingering blue in the chill morning air. 

When he walked back inside, the house felt like a mausoleum.

(On the way to his room, he noticed the door to Cassie's room was open. He closed it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna pray plot carried this chapter because I'm not really happy with how it turned out, but this is the best version I had. :/  
> Also, the really depressing shit is mostly over. Huzzah! March will be noticeably shorter on the angst.
> 
> Sweater curse: I firmly believe tattoos about people (except kids, generally) are the sweater curse of our generation.
> 
> Coda chapter isn't finished, so if there are any requests, leave a comment or [drop an ask on tumblr](http://thehattertheory.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll do my best to get them in. (These Broken Pieces is starting to develop it's own plot however, so I can't promise anything, but I will try.)  
> 


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